


Mind Off

by Verbo



Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Casual Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Meetings, Gratuitous Smut, Hook-Up, Multi, Multiple Relationships, Partying, Reader-Insert, reader is female
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-16 21:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21277751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbo/pseuds/Verbo
Summary: When the Unholy Trinity have a lot on their minds, they can always count on a certain girl to lift their spirits.Little do they know, they've all been turning to the same woman: you.





	1. Michael

**Author's Note:**

> I needed a break from writing my multi-chapter Trevor/OC fic, so here's some shameless smut about someone who meets and, ahem, gets to know our favorite crime dads and their crime son.

If you don’t leave this party soon, you’re going to kill yourself.

All your ire is directed at your friend, Beverly, the one who’d begged you to come with him so he wouldn’t look like the loser he is. Bev knows you hate his Vinewood friends, but he also knows you can’t resist free food and an open bar.

You sip your drink from your spot in the corner by the stairs and glare at him, over there on the couch, failing to impress some bleach-blonde fake-tanned wannabe actress with his exaggerated cameraman credentials. It makes you cringe to think about the things he must be saying to her. When it comes to hanging out with Beverly, you have to have a high tolerance for the douche chills.

The chick scoffs at whatever Bev just said and flits off, almost like she could somehow tell that he has no idea how to make a woman orgasm. He looks over at you and rolls his eyes in a way that says ‘can you believe that bitch?’. You just hold up your phone to show him the time with a pleading expression. He flashes five fingers at you and scoots off to find another victim to bore to death with his inflated ego. This was such a mistake. And you know that if he doesn’t lure some other poor soul home, he’s going to try his luck with you. Again.

As you’re flipping off his retreating back, a voice at your side says, “This party really that bad, you gotta flip it the bird?”

When you turn, startled, a good bit of your drink sloshes out all down the front of the dark-haired, blue-eyed man that just came down the stairs. _ Fuck, shit, fuck. _ He laughs the hoarse laugh of a longtime smoker as you scramble to apologize and search around for a napkin before settling on the curtain behind you. The man’s large, warm hand closes over yours, which is frantically dabbing at the stain with the drapes. The stream of curse words you’ve been muttering stops abruptly and you look up into his smiling face.

“It’s alright, kid, that’s what dry cleaners are for,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, but warm with amusement. He lets go of your hand. “And not, uh, the Venetian silk curtains.”

The absolute blueness of his eyes shocks you into stillness for a moment before you release both his suit jacket and the curtain and slap your forehead with your palm.

“Are you shitting me? This is _ your _ house? And I just- oh my god, I am so-”

“Hey now, are you gonna keep making me say it’s alright?” He chuckles again, and you decide that you can’t pinpoint the accent but it’s definitely not from southern San Andreas. The man points to your dress. “At least nothing got on that thing, looks expensive.”

“What, this?” You pull at one of your straps and are suddenly very aware that you never wear a bra with this dress. “No no, this just came from some website that was half in Chinese. The kind where you could be getting a tube sock instead of a tube dress, but you won’t know until it gets there.”

The man smoothes a hand over his grey-flecked stubble in thought, and you sneak a longer look at his face. It confirms your impression of him as being very nice to look at. The middle-age that lines his face combined with the uncommon accent and the sharp lines of his suit make him the most interesting person here, by default.

“Huh. Well, my suit _ says _ it’s from Italy, but, y’know. Could be Italy, Texas.”

“And I had to go and ruin it. And your curtains.” The words come tumbling out. You hope against hope that he didn’t notice how closely you were watching him as he spoke. “I swear, I’ll pay for whatever needs to be cleaned, Mister...um, Mister-”

“Michael. Michael De Santa.”

The older man’s lips quirk up on one side when his eyes alight on your cleavage for only the briefest of moments before returning to your face, but it’s enough to make your already-reddening cheeks go as hot as the sun. He joins you in propping up the wall and the two of you make a nice little anti-social duo on the fringes of the loud, heavily inebriated party. A faint wave of cologne hits you as he moves and your skin breaks out into goosebumps.

“You know, I keep hoping every time I throw one of these wrap parties that it’ll get easier,” Michael sighs, fiddling with his black tie. His eyes look heavy and tired. “But I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being the oldest, tired-est has-been in the room.”

You pivot just enough so that your shoulder is almost touching his and justify it to yourself by reasoning that you can hear him better this way.

“So why keep doing it? There’s gotta be a thousand other mansions these people can tear up in Vinewood.”

He looks at a big painting of some kind of generic landscape on the opposite wall, the kind in a heavy gilded frame that all rich people seem to have, but seems to be staring through it more than admiring it. You regret saying anything. In an unexpectedly glum tone, he replies, “I can’t party like I used to, but it’s...I dunno, it’s kinda nice having people in the house again.”

You take another sip of your drink, begging it to hurry up and do its thing so you can be rid of this awkward feeling. “Well, it’s a gorgeous house, Mr. De Santa. I mean, anything is swanky compared to _ my _ place, but this is…this is really something.”

“Wanna see the upstairs?”

When you tilt your head to look at him dubiously, what you see has your drink threatening to choke you. Michael’s crooked little smile isn’t trying to hide anything. There’s something mischievous in the crinkles at the corners of those bluer-than-blue eyes. Mr. De Santa isn’t talking about a tour. _ Oh, so _ that’s _ how it is, huh?_, comes your immediate thought, followed by an emphatic _ hell yes_, but your more rational side fights against the buzz of alcohol and adrenaline. You wait until it’s safe to swallow before you respond.

“Um, I, I mean, that sounds...honestly _ really _ nice,” you start, fumbling and somehow feeling even warmer. You must be rivalling the surface of the sun by now.

“But?” Michael mostly looks like this interaction is entertaining him, not annoying or even enraging him, which is typically how dudes at these industry parties handle rejection. He’s just fucking with you, he has to be.

“But, uh, but I gotta stick with my friend.” You gesture vaguely in the direction Beverly disappeared to, avoiding that hypnotizing gaze. “He’s my ride.”

He looks a bit skeptical for a second, but Michael doesn’t push. He just takes his hands out of his trouser pockets and nudges off the wall. A rumpled cigarette gets produced from somewhere. “Alright, sweetheart. Don’t go spillin’ drinks on anyone else or I might get jealous.”

He winks and heads off to the back deck, presumably to smoke, before someone calls out his name and pulls him into the crowd of dancers that jam-pack the living room, swaying to a beat that’s barely audible over all the revelry. Some chick immediately backs up to him and starts rolling her body against his, eyeing him seductively, if not a little drunkenly. He puts his hands on her hips with a game smile. On closer inspection, the girl grinding her ass into Michael’s crotch is the same one that shot Beverly down a couple minutes ago.

Now you _ really _ need to go. Bev’s insistence on carpooling may have been practical, but it just cost you the only thing that might have made this party tolerable and you’re getting a little pissed. It’s definitely not because you were too caught off-guard and nervous to call Michael’s bluff.

You push through the inebriated crowd of Vinewood semi-royalty to the back door and see that an impromptu pool party has started. Beverly must be somewhere in the sea of mostly-clothed bodies that’s churning up Mr. De Santa’s pool, you think, but his dumb face is nowhere to be found. Just how many people were involved in making this movie, anyway? You pace around the water’s edge a bit, your annoyance reaching the beginnings of anger, before you shove off to look for him among the strolling couples that dot the backyard.

_ I swear to god, Beverly Felton, if I find you plugging some bitch in the bushes… _

There he is. Draped over the tennis net. Bare-assed with a puddle of vomit under him and a telltale red plastic cup overturned nearby. His ever-present ballcap has fallen off and landed right in the middle of it. Surrounded by gawkers, howling with laughter and recording him on their phones. You rush over, shooing away the throng of paparazzos (_ ironic _, you think) and shaking him.

“Where are your fucking pants?” you hiss at Beverly, unfortunately not a stranger to him showing his ass both literally and figuratively. He only grunts in response and swats you away weakly. “Why do you get me into this shit? Why do I _ let _ you? Do I even have a brain?”

You call a cab and instruct them to come to the back of the house so you don’t have to figure out how to get Beverly all the way back to the front gate; he’s not a small dude and no way are you getting his puke on your dress. Again.

The no-pants situation is still an issue, though. They’re nowhere to be found, so you take the hike of shame back up the steps to try to find Michael. He might be able to give you a towel or something to allow your dumbass friend at least _ some _ dignity. You spot him up on the back balcony that overlooks the pool, smoking by himself and watching the debauchery below.

You cup your hands around your mouth and shout his name. It takes a moment since you keep getting jostled by the dance party that seems to have migrated outside to mingle with the pool party, but Michael gives you another of those slanted smiles that deepens the lines of his eyes when he sees you waving frantically.

“Mr. De Santa, I need-” You get cut off by some asshole catching you hard in the shoulder as he passes by. Michael straightens a bit and exhales a big cloud of white smoke as you turn back to him and try to shout again. “I need a-”

And then you’re falling, because someone behind you apparently thought it would be funny to reach up and yank you into the crowded pool by the hem of your dress. When you surface, sputtering, you look up through strands of your ruined hair and shoot Michael a look that you hope conveys all of your barely-contained desperation.

He stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on the railing next to him and makes a ‘come here’ motion with his finger, beckoning you into the house. The sight of Michael doing that hits you in a weird way and you feel strangely lightheaded as you crawl out of the pool and push back inside. It almost doesn’t bother you that you’re missing one of your pumps, nor that you’re bringing torrents of chlorinated water inside with you.

When you find him, he’s at the top of the stairs, peering down at you through the iron tangles of the chandelier. Your pulse starts to pick up speed while you make your way up to him, stopping to look at him when you reach the landing.

“Decided to take a dip, huh?” he snickers. You’re torn between wanting to go the hell home to sleep off this humiliating night and flirting with this fiendishly charming man. But after that unexpected swim, you’re too cold and too sober for the latter.

“I need a towel,” you reply, then jerk your thumb in the direction of the tennis court. “Two towels, actually. My friend appears to have lost half of his outfit and I’m gonna try to cover him up. The one time I saw his dick was traumatic enough.”

“You got it.”

Michael leads you to the guest bathroom, in the middle of saying something smartass-y, only to find the door locked. His face goes from huge smirk to deadpan when some very suggestive noises come floating out. He shakes his head. “Can’t believe I forgot to lock it. Thank god I remembered the kids’ rooms,” he mutters with a cringe, then goes to a door across the hall.

Kids’ rooms? Oh boy. Did you miss a wedding band somewhere?_  
_

Michael steps into the room you assume is his and calls, “Just wait right there, I’ll- What the fuck?”

You get streaked past, literally, by a trio of giggling girls missing various pieces of clothing. They disappear down the staircase, hand in hand. Sheesh, that girl that Beverly was chatting up sure does get around.

“Wonders never cease at the De Santa house,” Michael laments, shaking his head again, but that’s all he says. He seems a little lost in thought, and you see several sentences start and stop on his lips. He’s not looking at you, but you think you might have some idea as to what he’s debating with himself.

Alright then. You’ll make the decision for him.

“You know, I actually think they had the right idea.” You tug at the plunging neckline of your dress, pulling it just far enough away from the slippery skin of your chest to catch Michael’s attention. His eyes focus in like a laser and darken immediately. Your hunch was right. He drags his eyes up your body to meet your gaze, and the look sets your stomach fluttering. “I could really stand to get out of this thing.”

And that’s how you end up pressed up against the wall of Michael’s bedroom, sighing his name as he holds your head in place with one hand and fondles you with the other. His mouth, hot and wet, meanders from your collarbones to your neck to a spot behind your ear that reduces you to a quivering mess. The sound of your occasional soft groans compete with the distant thudding of dance music, as well as the deafening drone of blood rushing through your head at an alarming rate.

“You taste like chlorine,” Michael whispers in that rough, deep tenor and you feel his smile against the place where your neck meets your shoulders. Combined with the scrape of his stubble, it’s enough to put you in sensory overload. For the first time, he puts his mouth to yours, and his lips feel scorching hot against your clammy ones. “Cold,” he hums, and wipes off his mouth with the back of his hand. When he pulls it away, you see your lipstick smeared all over it and it gives you a little thrill.

“And _ you _ taste like an ashtray,” you counter. You only have a moment to breathe before Michael dives back in for a second kiss, deeper and rougher than the first. His tongue traces along your bottom lip, asking permission, and you gladly accept him into your mouth. There is smoke, but there’s also the bitter bite of whiskey, and you miss the taste every time he breaks the kiss to gasp in a few short breaths.

In the lovely blur of it all, your thigh has slid between Michael’s legs and you can feel that he’s well on the way to hard. The insistent heat of his groin against your leg is incredibly appealing, and your palm finds its way there almost instinctively, gripping Michael through his pants.

He nearly buckles, breath hitching, as you run your hand up and down the length of him, the friction of your skin against the silken fabric of his suit eliciting a series of wonderful, coarse noises from the back of Michael’s throat. He feels so thick and so wonderfully firm that you can’t stop the little whine in your throat when he pushes your hand away and gives you a stern look.

“Quit that. Unless you _ want _ me to come in my pants.”

That wouldn’t be so bad, you think with a wry smile. Michael returns it - god, those _ eyes _ \- and stands up straight, releasing his hold on you and going to work on the buttons of his white dress shirt with shaking fingers even though he hasn’t even taken his jacket off yet. He’s coming undone a little, unsure of whether to keep running his hands over your hips or finish unbuttoning his shirt, and you kind of love it.

Your hands slide up the back of his solid neck, fingertips skimming gently over the tenseness in the tendons, before brushing against his strong jaw. Michael’s eyes, half-lidded and studying you, flutter closed when you press a tender kiss there, then fly open again when you start undoing his belt. 

“Bed,” he chokes out, and you’re delighted to hear his voice on the verge of cracking.

You keep your eyes on his as he backs away, committing every nuance in the shades of blue to memory, before you happen to catch sight of yourself in the mirror on the vanity next to Michael’s bed. The makeup and hair ensemble you spent all afternoon putting together have slid all down your face, but it clearly doesn’t bother him, so you don’t let it bother you. Actually, it kind of adds to the messy, impromptu nature of all this.

Michael pats the bed next to him and gapes when you drop to your knees between his legs instead. His belt is open in seconds, and then the button and zipper of his trousers in quick succession; the hunger in your movements has him struggling to breathe. That breath becomes a hiss when your open mouth makes contact with his cock, still trapped against his belly under his boxers, moving along the line of his shaft.

You pull away right before you reach the head. Michael opens his clenched eyes and looks like he’s about to complain when you practically shove his boxers down enough for his cock to finally spring free. You don’t hear any complaints then, when you’re testing how much of it will fit down your throat.

“Oh, my god,” he sighs, his back arching. You set a slow pace, humming happily around his dick when he twists his fingers in your still-drenched hair. “Oh my god, fuck _ me _-”

Your hand joins your mouth for a few long, drawn out strokes, and the hand that isn’t resting on the back of your bobbing head (not pushing, just resting) is up at Michael’s mouth, his knuckles trapped between his teeth like he’s trying to shut himself up. When you twist your hand in just the right way, Michael jolts and pushes a hand against your shoulder in a panicked move to get you to stop. You oblige, pouting up at him, and see his brows are furrowed apologetically.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry, it’s just,” he pauses, running a hand through his short hair. “It’s, uh...it’s been a while since anything...I’m just not...it’s been a hell of a long time since anything was this good, you know?”

You open your mouth to say something reassuring, but he just waves it away like ‘forget it, it was dumb’ and points to the bedside table. You take the hint and grab a rubber from the drawer.

Once he’s rolled the condom on, Michael pushes you down onto your back easily and hooks his arms under your knees, pulling you right to the edge of the bed. His hands shove your dress up past your hips and with two fingers he hooks your soaked panties and yanks them to the side. He’s been soft until now, gentle in his uncertainty, but now he’s got power in his movements that he was holding back before. The ease with which he moves you into position, the vision of him standing there, still in that smart black suit, lining up his slicked-up cock at your entrance, is all so much better than it should be, especially for some guy you just met at a party.

“You’re…,” he starts, then almost looks like he’s going to laugh. “_Incredible. _ I mean, fuck.”

You go to make some sarcastic comment about him giving you performance anxiety. Then, abrupt chaos.

Michael slides into you easily, barely giving you time to adjust to his girth and the way it’s filling you up so fucking _ perfectly _before he’s drawn himself back out to the tip. It leaves your hands scrambling for purchase on something, anything, before settling for wrapping around his forearms.

“_ God_, _ Mi_chael-”

His breath is ragged as he pumps into you, gathering some of your considerable wetness on his fingertips before bringing them up to his mouth, tasting you. The sight of it, the muscles of his stomach and hips contracting with every frantic thrust, his head thrown back with gritted teeth in a way that tells you he’s trying hard not to come until you do, it’s sending you toward the edge dangerously quickly. You know you need him closer when you come, so you sit up and pull him down by the neck until the warmth of his damp body weighs you down.

Michael props himself up with his forearms on either side of you, his head dropped down into your chest. He grunts with every cant of his hips, and eventually those grunts are drawn out into groans in that jagged voice of his that sends electric pulses to your core. So suddenly that it startles you, you’re being dragged under the crashing tide of unreal, raw pleasure that shoots from between your legs in every conceivable direction.

“Don’t stop, don’t ever stop, Michael, oh _ god, Michael- _”

And your delirious incantation right in his ear, your fingers tangled into the roots of his hair, your velvety muscles contracting around him while you squeeze the daylights out of him with your thighs, is what sends Michael hurtling into the frenzy of orgasm.

“Dah, _ shit_,” he growls, “ _ Fuck-! _”, and he ruts you into his mattress fiercely until he can’t anymore, then yanks the condom off to spill his come in hot, thick bursts all over your quivering thighs and stomach.

Moments pass in silence, and the sounds of the night come leaking back into your awareness one by one. The music from downstairs still thumping away and the laughter and conversation and the cars passing down on the street. The pounding in your head winding down as you catch your breath. You hardly notice that Michael is no longer standing over you until he returns from the bathroom.

“Got you that towel you wanted,” he says, and hands it to you, chuckling when you roll your eyes at him. Once you’re cleaned up, things really quiet down and the two of you just look at each other, trying to figure out what the other is thinking. What you really want is to fall asleep in Michael’s cushy bed and do it all over again when you wake up, but you’re not one to push your luck.

Instead of ushering you out like you half-expected, Michael kicks off his shiny black shoes and climbs up to sit behind you on the bed. His arms snake their way around your middle and he just holds you to him, forehead resting on the back of your neck. It’s ridiculously comfortable, and you wonder back to what Michael said about not being used to this and whether he’d be willing to change that.

“Guess I got to see the upstairs after all,” you muse, and Michael laughs, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His warm breath feels wonderful on the sensitive skin there.

“You can see it whenever you want, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you agree, pulling away to roll onto your back. Your thighs are still a little too weak to stand. Michael follows suit, staring up at the ceiling beside you. “After _ that_, I was hoping…”

Michael turns his head toward you to see why you trailed off, and quickly props himself up on an elbow when he sees your horrified face. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Oh my god. Beverly.”


	2. Franklin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Beverly's inability to handle his liquor puts you into yet another tight spot that turns out to be pretty neat.

It was easy to ignore the first set of messages. You must be number neighbors with some party girl or something. You lay your phone back down and roll over, trying to get back into the comfy position you’d been in before your phone buzzed. Right as you're falling asleep, it does it again.

You shake your head. Fuckin' Beverly. You consider just sending him a few bucks and calling it a night, but you remember what happened last time you did that. Bev told the Uber driver to drop him at the airport for some reason and he got picked up for being drunk in public. Apparently he doesn’t have any other friends, or they’re all smarter than you and told him to piss off. You throw your head back against your pillows, cursing your fate of babysitting drunk idiots, and lay there contemplating for a while before your phone lights up again.

You hit 'Send', and yet another message comes through.

As usual, you can’t help but smile when you see his name at the top of the screen. But there’s business to be done here. You swipe away from Michael’s message despite how your fingertips itch to reply.

With that out of the way, you mournfully pull off the covers and start getting dressed. Then you remember Michael.

Another message from the “playa” pops up just as you’re slipping into your jeans.

The absolute last thing you needed tonight (or any night) was an unsolicited dick pic, but there it is, in glorious technicolor, taken in a very unsanitary-looking public bathroom. That’s it. That is fucking _it_. You’re going to humiliate that camera-toting, backwards-hat-wearing piece of shit so bad that he’ll never drink another drop as long as he lives. You don't bother to respond to the unknown number, locking your phone and pulling on an old, entirely club-inappropriate T-shirt, now fully awake and running solely on the anticipation of kicking Beverly's ass into next week.

You shoot one last round of texts to Michael in the back of the cab.

\--

You see the neon pink, martini-lounging pinup girl long before the cabbie drops you at the door. On the way, Michael had been insisting that you call him if you need help. You reckon that Beverly’s the one that’ll need help when you’re through obliterating him. You elected not to tell Michael that the creep sending you pictures of his junk was also apparently at the same club.

At this time of night, most people have gone home to sleep it off or moved on to other clubs, so you get in the front door quickly. The bouncer regards the wild spark in your eyes warily but doesn’t impede your mission. The music inside is deafening, of course, but that combined with the musky smell of masses of sweaty dancers and the blinding lights mean you’re down to only two usable senses. You make a beeline for the first short dude in a backwards ballcap you see, who turns out to just be some frat boy.

“Sorry, I was looking for my friend.”

“_I _ can be your friend,” the guy leers, eye-fucking your cleavage. You steer away with a sigh and go back to scanning the crowd for the stupid, punchable face that forced you out of your warm bed, maybe prevented you from going over and getting into Michael’s. And isn’t this familiar? Searching for Beverly in a loud, cramped room, not sure whether he’ll be neck-deep in a toilet or getting the shit kicked out of him by a protective boyfriend. It’s like the world’s worst game of Wheel of Fortune. 

He’s standing surprisingly upright, chatting up yet another blonde chick by the bar. At least he’s consistent. Over Beverly’s shoulder, the girl sees you storming up behind him and bolts, making him spin around. He looks just as irate as you feel before confusion tightens his features.

“Aw _ come on_, man, I was just about to pull in some premium pussy,” he laments, yanking off his cap to push the damp hair out of his eyes. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway? Don’t you hate clubs?”

He’s surprisingly intelligible for someone supposedly so drunk that he needs rescuing.

“No, Beverly, I _ don’t _ hate clubs,” you hiss. “What I hate is being pulled out of bed at one in the morning to pull your lightweight ass out of trouble and...and…” 

You trail off when you see that he’s following your every word without going wall-eyed, which is not something drunk Beverly does.

“...and you’re not even drunk, are you?”

“I dunno, I feel a little buzzed,” he says thoughtfully, then turns his eyes back down to you. “I know you’re into me, but you can’t go around scaring off every bottle blonde in LS. I mean, for one, you’d die of old age before you ever-”

“Then why the fuck did you text me saying you needed help?” you demand, your voice a little louder than intended. People are looking now. The flush of embarrassment and anger is creeping up your neck. Beverly looks like you just told him you want to have a third tit installed. You pull up the messages and hold up your phone. He recoils immediately.

“I didn’t send that shit,” he scoffs, as though him drunk-texting you is an idea from some bizarro dimension. “I don’t even have my phone, it’s-”

Beverly stops very abruptly. You recognize that look in his eye, like a dog who just got caught tearing up the couch. He’s already dashed away a good ten feet before your brain catches up.

“Beverly!” you call after him, scrambling to catch up, “Oh my god, what? What did you _ do? _”

He only stops when he’s reached one of the private rooms, dubbed the Havana Lounge, and bursts in. How the hell did _ Beverly _ get on anyone’s VIP list? The room is dark, illuminated only by the shocking pink glow of strip lights that span the tops of the walls. Once your eyes adjust, you see several men seated on the cushy benches lining the perimeter, some receiving attention from giggling girls, all clutching bottles and glasses.

“Lamar, dude,” Beverly pants, doubled over from his little jogging spree. “Did you use my phone?”

One of the men turns his head, but he’s barely visible behind the gyrating bodies of two women who may or may not have had more clothes on when they got here. 

“You left it unlocked, homie,” Lamar shouts over the music, his voice full of bravado. “And that lil’ mama you told me about, your friend, she ain’t text me back, so what a brother ‘posed to do?”

Beverly looks to you pleadingly, but it’s too late. You’re storming into the middle of the group, absolutely seething, until you reach the man whose dick is currently taking up space on your phone. The overhead lights shift from pink to green as you lay into him.

“What you’re _ supposed _ to do is not send pictures of your crusty-ass dick to some stranger and then pretend to be her friend so you can trick her into coming all the fuck the way across town for no reason!"

Lamar shuffles awkwardly as the two scantily-clad ladies shoot disgusted looks at one another and peel themselves off of him. He reaches out after them, devastated, as they hurry out.

“Aw, hell, shorty, that- that’s private-”

But you’ve already whirled on Beverly, practically breathing fire.

“Beverly Felton, if you don’t stop giving my number to every random asshole, I swear to _ god_-”

“What the fuck goin’ on in here?”

A new voice comes from the doorway and everyone turns to see another man standing there clutching two bottles of champagne, a dumbfounded look on his face. You peek around your friend just as the lights switch from green to blue, contrasting strikingly against the man’s dark skin and sharp brown eyes. Eyes that soften when they turn to you.

“What you causin’ all this ruckus for?”

You jab a finger in Lamar’s direction. “Pencil dick here woke me up with pictures of his defining feature. Pictures I did _ not _ solicit, mind you. And then he tricked me into coming here.” Then you bury your fingertip in Beverly’s chest, making him wince. “And _ this _dumbass, who I should’ve stopped being friends with years ago, is the one who made it all possible.”

You step back, adjust your shirt, and turn for the door. 

“I’m going home.”

The man in the doorway steps aside so you can pass, and you can hear him berating the other two as you march back towards the exit. The bottles behind the bar glint temptingly as you pass, and you almost ignore it.

_ Ah, what the hell_, you figure, heaving a sigh. _ Already paid the cover charge. Might as well. _

You’re two drinks in when the mystery guy from the private lounge shows up in your peripheral. You groan and slap down a tip, stepping down from the barstool.

“Hey, hold up.”

You feel a large hand getting a gentle grip on your upper arm. You want to keep going, get out of here and fall into bed until at least noon tomorrow, but something about that low voice is so pleasant. Those same dark eyes from before greet you when you turn around, this time touched with more worry than before.

“Look, I’m...I’m real sorry about Lamar,” he says, avoiding your eyes now. “He’s kind of a huge fuckin’ idiot.”

“I gathered.”

He releases you, but you don’t move. It was too dark and you were too distracted to see him clearly before, but this guy is _ handsome_. Buff as hell, too. You don’t feel quite so much like leaving anymore.

“Yeah. But he don’t mean no harm. I made sure he took your number out his phone.”

“Thank you. Really.”

You start to feel awkward after a moment, so you grab your bag off the back of the chair and turn, only to turn back when he calls after you. 

“Can I at least buy you a drink?” He smiles sheepishly. 

“Or several,” you suggest, and he laughs as he reaches for your hand. You gladly give it to him and let him lead you back to a more private corner of the bar.

As he plies you with drinks, you learn that his name is Franklin, he’s known Lamar since they were kids, and that he got roped into Beverly’s bullshit last year when Bev cajoled him into taking the now-famous Poppy Mitchell sex tape.

When you ask him what he does, he smiles around the lip of his beer and sets it down after a long pull.

“Bank robber,” Franklin says, and his eyes are twinkling with heady memories that you’d love to know.

“No shit!” you laugh out.

“Retired.”

He catches you glancing at his full lips when he says that. His smile grows a little wider.

“I got somethin’ on my face?”

“Just trying to imagine how someone as sweet as you ever got it in your mind to steal little old ladies’ war bonds.”

“Long story,” Franklin replies, eyes rolling up to the ceiling. “Old white dudes have a habit of fuckin’ things up for me. And I gotta deal wit’ _ two _ of they crazy asses.”

“_Oooo_,” you croon teasingly. You prop up your chin on your palm. “They sound dangerous. Introduce me sometime?”

Franklin scoffs. “If you consider loungin’ in your slippers by your overpriced pool behind your overpriced mansion ‘dangerous’. But the other one, he just...there ain’t words, y’know?”

He considers you for a moment, tracing the inside of your forearm with a thick finger. Then he leans in close, his voice deep and smooth in your ear.

“Wanna get outta here?”

_ Not a good idea_, says your brain. _ He could be just as creepy as dick-pic guy. _

“Sure,” says your mouth.

\--

You barely make it to Franklin’s white Buffalo. The whole walk to the carpark was punctuated with pulling him into dark alleys for wet kisses, whispering lustful promises against the shell of his ear, his hand squeezing your ass when no one was looking. He presses up against you from behind, trapping you against the cold metal of his car while he grinds his hard-on against your ass. It makes your knees weak.

“Franklin,” you groan, begging for a little mercy.

“Shit, _ shit_, a’ight girl.”

He fumbles for his keys and tips you into his backseat. The leather is unyielding, firm against your back but it doesn’t bother you one bit. It couldn’t possibly when Franklin is crawling over you, devouring your trembling body with those dark eyes. He pulls the door closed with his boot and there’s a beat of silence before he’s flush with you again, rutting against your thigh, breath stuttering in your ear. 

“You gonna make good on all’em tough words?”

“Only one way to find out,” you murmur, and his look borders on frenzied when he puts his fingers to work with your zipper. As the rough denim slides down your legs, Franklin presses fiery kisses to each new spot he uncovers until your thighs are quivering. His lips are so wonderfully soft and agile that you can’t help but shudder when you imagine them between your legs.

It’s a challenge, but Franklin kicks out of his pants as well and tosses them to the floor, revealing his impressive size as he strains against the silky fabric of his boxers. His head dips to your chest as you employ one hand in exploring his leaking erection and the other in appreciating the taut muscle of his thighs. He’s uncut, you can tell that much, but you need to see more. 

Franklin sighs when you remove your hands, but he doesn’t look too bothered when you cross them over your stomach and pull your shirt over your head. He puts that fantastic mouth to good use immediately, sucking at your collarbones before wrestling your bra off so he can flick at your nipple with his tongue.

“Oh, fuck, _ Franklin_-!”

He’s started kneading his fingertips against that most sensitive spot, and you can feel how completely wet you are as the slickened fabric of your panties slips against your pussy. Franklin keeps up his ravaging of your nipple with his lips, his tongue, his teeth, grasping at your other breast with his free hand, and you know release isn’t far behind. He speeds up the process by dipping two fingers inside you, swirling around your clit with the pad of his thumb. You grip at his brawny shoulders as your first orgasm tears through you in harsh waves, grinding against Franklin’s fingers desperately. He rides it out with you, jolting when you grip his dick in your palm and _ squeeze_.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your breast. “_Fuck. _”

“Come on, baby,” you instruct, and Franklin’s boxers are off in a flash. He works his mouth against yours as he guides your underwear away, leaving a glistening streak down the insides of your thighs. He tilts his head against the window when you push back his foreskin and coat his tip with your wetness, stroking him a little and biting your lip in anticipation. It’s gonna hurt, but it’ll be well worth it.

“You ready?” he asks. Somewhere along the way, he must have fished a condom out from somewhere. His eyes are shining when they meet your own half-lidded ones, and he’s made such a mess of you already that all you can do is nod. Franklin kneels between your knees and pushes in, torturously slowly, inch by inch. He stretches you to capacity and, even though it stings, the pain is quickly overshadowed by the pleasure of being so incredibly full. He exhales deeply through his nose, gripping your hips. You wrap your fingers around his wrists, holding him there. Your fingers snake down to your throbbing clit just as Franklin bottoms out.

“Franklin-”

“Can I...you good if I move?”

“God, yes.”

Franklin starts slowly, still giving you plenty of time to adjust, before your urging sets him on a dizzying pace he can’t come back from. He moans, needy and low, before raising your hips up and slinging your knees over his shoulders for the perfect angle. When he hits the little bundle of nerves deep inside you, you shoot up to your elbows reflexively, digging your nails into his forearm. Your second orgasm comes on lightning-fast, shooting through your midsection strong and deep as undercurrent, whisking you away. 

“Fuck, Franklin, keep going-”

Franklin’s trying to be careful with his thrusts, but your tight, warm walls clenching around him and his name stumbling off your tongue makes him lose control a little. He anchors himself against the seat, thrusts becoming more and more erratic.

“God_ damn_, hah, I’m- I’m gonna fuckin’-”

His hips grind hard into yours, sheathing himself as close to the hilt as he can while he comes, hissing through gritted teeth. It takes you both a moment or two to catch your breath, but it’s all done with satisfied smiles tinged with disbelief. Franklin uses his button-up to clean you both off despite your protestations, then leans down to give you a few more lasting kisses. You gladly melt into his tender ministrations, filling the humid air once again with sighs and giggles.

At some point, a pair of headlights brightens up the otherwise deserted lot, giving you your cue to leave. Just then, you’re grateful for the dark tint of Franklin’s windows.

\--

Franklin’s car is idling outside your building when he asks, all sly and self-assured, “What’s it gonna take for you to come kick it wit’ me again, girl?”

“Not much,” you admit with a chuckle. “Just promise me Lamar won’t be there and I’m down. Beverly either.”

“Done and fuckin’ done.”

As you’re opening the door into the already escalating heat of the Los Santos sunrise, Franklin slides you something small. A business card. You inspect it for just a moment before laughing. Franklin smirks over at you as you swing your legs out and stand, bending over to lean back into the car.

“‘Entrepreneur’? Really?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore Lamar, but I don't think it's too much of a stretch to think he'd pull something like that.
> 
> My Best Boy Trevor's up next >:)))))
> 
> Oh, I forgot: I'm also writing a multi-chapter plot-heavy [Trevor x OC fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20167024/chapters/47779363) which will also eventually have smut in it. Just FYI.


	3. Trevor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU where the Madrazos have a daughter and Floyd didn't die :D

Before Michael and long before Franklin, there was Trevor. 

Beverly’s long history of headache-inducing buffoonery didn’t start that night at the De Santa mansion. Oh, no. It didn’t even start with Trevor, but, in hindsight, you now realize that the night you met Trev was the start of Beverly’s frankly suspicious ability to bring weird, wonderful men into your life. Tragedy plus time and all that.

“I’m not doing it,” you muttered with finality, poking at the food Bev bought you. Probably a bribe, you now realized. “I fucking hate that guy.”

Beverly groaned a lengthy _ ughhhh_, threw his head back, dragged his palms down over his face. Drama queen. He peered at you from between his fingers. “You wouldn’t even have to interact with him, oh my _ god _. You’re such a fucking baby.” 

A waiter passed by, shooting Beverly’s teenager-ish display a dirty look that matched those on the faces of several surrounding diners. You gave a forced smile, took a forced bite.

“Drew consistently hit on me, and by consistently I mean non-fucking-stop, the whole time he was dating Val.” All the messages you’d had to delete, all the accounts you’d had to block. You’d stopped poking and started stabbing a floret of broccoli as if it wore his face. Beverly’s or Drew’s, you couldn’t decide. “He didn’t stop even after he was _ engaged _ to her.”

“Yeah...and Val _ still _ said yes, even after you told her about it,” Beverly recalled, oddly sympathetic.

Your face went deadpan and you looked at him pointedly. “None of my friends have ever been MENSA candidates, have they.”

“Yeahyeahyeahyeah.” Bev waved away the insult. “So you gonna help me out or what? I mean, if it makes you feel any better, I’m one zillion percent sure we could get undeniable photographic evidence of that douchenozzle doing something..._unfitting _ of a guy who’s about to get married, huh? If you know what I, what I- hey, wha-, where are you going?”

You doubled back, and your shadow fell over his panicked face as you bent over him. Everyone was watching for sure now. “Let me make this perfectly clear for you. I do _ not _ want to do anything that would benefit him in any way. I especially do. NOT. Want to work for him.”

“You’d be working for _ me_,” Beverly corrected, jabbing his thumb at himself. “Look, what I said before? Ninety-ten? Forget it. It’s in the ether.” He leaned forward on his elbows over the table, giving you his best approximation of puppy-dog eyes. It made you cringe. “What do we say...eighty-twenty?”

You pushed back from the table, eyes rolled up to the ceiling. “As surprised as I am that he’s paying you, I’m not taking his money.”

“Val’s parents are the ones paying. Mr. and Mrs. Madrazo? You like them, don’t you? And they’re paying out the ass, just, look-” Bev clasped his hands together, dropped his forehead to rest on them as he pleaded, “The extravagant shit they want me to do, I’m gonna need a lot of gear, and, hey, it should say a lot that I trust you to take care of my shit, right?”

“You expect me to haul thirty pounds of equipment-”

“Eh, closer to fourty-five.”

“-up and down the beach for that piece of shit for three hours at a _ twenty percent cut?_ Eat my entire ass, Felton.”

He grabbed at your arm to halt your retreat for the door. “Seventy-thirty. Dear god, please. I have mouths to feed.”

The abject anguish in his face touched some deeply-buried part of you that somehow hadn’t been suffocated by dealing daily with the cynical, self-absorbed smog of LS.

“The only mouth you have to feed is the big fat one spewing bullshit. Fifty-fucking-fifty.”

To your shock and dismay, that ridiculous overshot was apparently just fine with Beverly. In fact, he was thrilled. The thin veneer of genuine emotion was replaced immediately by his dumb smarmy machismo the moment you agreed to help him. It made you wonder how many others he'd already tried and failed to con. Also whether you would ever stop falling for the con yourself.

\--

When two loaded families make babies, and those babies get married, the results are truly something to behold. Overnight, Del Perro Pier had been transformed into a fairy-tale of organza streamers and string lights, rented out by Madrazo and lavishly decorated in a display of his sickening wealth. Not a homeless person or hawaiian-shirted tourist in sight.

And, as you’d anticipated, being Beverly’s roadie was far from the only thing you got roped into. The setting sun threw its purple-orange rays over the beach at the foot of the pier as you helped reattach corsages, coaxed timid flower girls out from under tables, and touched up runny mascara. All while Beverly buzzed around with all the annoying qualities of a six-foot-tall fly, recording every little snag and pitfall with derisive glee. Schadenfreude, meet poster boy.

“What can I say?” he’d smirked as he snapped an outrageously unflattering photo of you halfway up the bride’s dress, placing her garter. “You’re photogenic.”

Surprising no one, the groom showed up late, hungover, and tuxedo-less. Beverly dutifully documented the resulting near fist-fight between Mr. Madrazo and his soon-to-be son-in-law while you consoled the sobbing bride. When rich people have a trashy wedding, they really go all-out. 

“Who’s the creepy dude hanging around Mrs. M? Family friend?”

You looked up from knotting a groomsman’s tie to follow Beverly’s pointing finger. Sure enough, a ways in the distance, a tall, lanky man in a too-short, woefully outdated suit and aviators walked along the shoreline with Mrs. Madrazo, as much of his large hands stuffed into his pockets as he could manage. You’d never seen Patricia look so serene, so youthful, positively glowing with tenderness as she gazed up at the frankly odd-looking man. That girlish twisting of hair verged on something a little more than platonic. You’d also never seen that vein in Martin’s temple stand out as much as it did when he saw his wife pocket a seashell the stranger picked up for her. 

The man’s mismatched socks and lopsided grin stayed with you, so out of place among the designer gowns and plastic smiles of the other guests filing in. You had to wonder what on earth he’d done to get an invitation; to say that Mr. Madrazo was image-conscious would have been an understatement in the highest. He'd likely spent untold thousands to keep the riffraff _ off _ the beach, only to have the detritus come from within the wedding itself and flirt with his wife.

There was little time to speculate, however, and when the big moment came, you had to admit it was incredible. Despite the groom’s parents turning up their noses at the flowery _ lazo _ and the groom himself practically breaking the bride’s nose whilst shoving cake in her face, there were some highlights. Val looked absolutely incredible in her intricately embroidered gown and seemed for all the world to be thrilled to be the new (and undoubtedly not the last) wife of one of Los Santos’ scummiest scumbags (and that was saying a _ lot _ ). When she asked if you were happy for her, Beverly cut you off with an overly hammy _ oh my god, yesss _and elbowed you until you agreed.

It had been strangely uneventful, at least as far as this particular set of families went, up until about halfway through the reception. As far as you saw, there was no hair-pulling, no Return of the Jealous Exes, and not one drop of vomit in the punch. You’d spent the post-sunset hours in the ballroom of The Pearl, snapping photos of dances and toasts and other standard wedding fare and were truly alarmed to discover that you and Beverly made a damn good team. He even listened to at least one of your suggestions. It was wild. On top of that, despite your aching shoulders, it was actually pretty..._fun_. 

Anytime one of your photo ops happened to include the mysterious stranger, though, even as part of the background, he always managed to slink out of frame at the last moment. Once you noticed, it became a bit of a thrill, trying to catch him off-guard but never even getting close to immortalizing the artful dodger on digital film. When you finally cornered the slippery, grinning weasel over by the cake table, he brandished a plastic knife at you with one hand and flipped you off with the other. When you looked up to tell him that, in the astronomically unlikely event that the couple made it to even a one-year anniversary, you’d vote for this picture to be the one printed onto the sheet cake, he’d vanished. 

As he was wont to do, however, Drew found a way to tear down any small glimmer of enjoyment you’d managed to find and set it on fire for good measure. You’d escaped to one of the upper balconies of the restaurant, taking a breather from the growing heat and tipsiness of the reception in the balmy moonlit night while Beverly went down the pier, probably hoping for shots of guests shitting themselves on the Leviathan.

“Thought I saw you sneaking out here,” came the last voice you wanted to hear, slimy and slurred, from behind you. Drew came to stand beside you, gaze boring holes in you, but you kept your eyes on the waves. The dreamy calm produced by the sight and sound of the ocean was quickly being replaced by prickling irritation and, yes, you’d admit it, a touch of fear. 

“Think you’re too good to talk to me, as fuckin’ usual,” he sneered, the alcohol dulling any attempts he would have usually made to at least _ appear _ to be a decent human being. As if in agreement with his statement, you turned back toward the balcony door, but you only made it two steps before he’d slung an arm around your waist. The smell of a two-day-bender’s worth of bad decisions hit you in a nauseating wall when Drew snickered, “Hey, come on, babe, I’m dressed all nice an’ _ every_thing.”

“At your own _wedding?” _You narrowed your eyes at him and his answering smirk was dopey. If you’d had to guess, the blood flushing his face was almost certainly composed entirely of at least twelve kinds of hooch. Shame wasn’t going to work on someone like him, but it was worth a shot. “You are a walking cliche, you know that?”

“Hey, what better time is there?” Drew scoffed, gesturing broadly and nearly losing his balance. When he righted himself, you didn’t bother hiding your disappointment. “Everyone’s paying attention to the bride since it’s her _ ‘big day’ _ or whatever anyway. No one cares about the groom at a wedding.”

“Least of all me.”

“C’_mon_, no one’ll notice if I just-” he oozed closer “-disappear for a couple minutes.”

“You’re gonna disappear for good if you don’t get the fuck away from me,” you hissed, palms flat against his chest to shove him away. He didn’t even budge. Instead, he trapped your hands against him, anchoring you. Despite your struggle, Drew didn’t let go, not even in the startle of a blinding flash.

“Oh-ho-ho, see!” crooned Beverly, lowering his camera. He winked at you while you stared helplessly back, your vision swimming. “Told ya we’d catch ‘im. You naughty boy, you!”

“Fuck off, Felton,” Drew growled, still gripping you painfully, making you squirm. To his credit, Beverly’s face fell from triumphant to furious the instant he saw it. “Don’t you think for one second that I won’t throw you and your stupid fuckin’ camera right off the goddamn pier.”

“The pictures get uploaded to the cloud instantly.” Drew’s attention snapped back to you, and his synapses may have been drowning in booze, but the look in his glassy eyes was still dangerous. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, dipshit.”

Then you were seeing stars, because he was squeezing your wrists tight enough that the bones ground together.

“Don’t fucking threaten me, you little _ bitch- _”

And that was all he got out, because in the space of one startled blink, he’d crumpled to the floor in a tuxedo’d pile, face first. You stared down at him, at the blood trickling out of his stupid face onto the scuffed wood, hoping he broke something. Or that he would at least wake up with a head full of splinters. You rubbed the soreness from your wrists and were surprised to find that your knight in shining armor was a balding dude in an ill-fitting suit. Oh. That guy. Beverly was awfully quiet and his eyes were awfully round.

“You were doin’ fine on your own, but I figured a little help wouldn’t go amiss.” 

The strange interloper shook the pain out of his hand and swiped the blood on his tattooed knuckles conspicuously down the front of his suit jacket. Then he looked down at you over his sunglasses with something wild in his dark eyes and there was something...intimidating about how close he was standing, his face unclear in the shadow of the moon. 

“Now, I reckon you got a minute or two tops before he comes to, and only a little longer than that before someone comes lookin’ for this piece-a shit,” he instructed as he looked around, possibly for witnesses. “I got enough first-hand experience to know that you don’t wanna be standin’ next to a semi-conscious guy when his friends come callin’.” 

He tipped an invisible hat and hopped the railing. You watched him go because that was all you could think to do, until you had to swat Bev on the arm because he was trying to sneak a photo of the aftermath. The man who’d just one-hit-K.O.’d the groom was almost to the bottom of the stairs that led down to the pier before calling back with a ridiculous redneck accent, “Don’t you go gettin’ into any more trouble now, little lady.”

“Wait, uh, where- um-” Your legs moved entirely of their own accord. To your surprise, he waited for you, expression unreadable behind the sunglasses he still had on for some reason. “Where are you headed? Um. If you don’t mind me asking?”

He turned slowly, deliberately, and lowered his aviators. His energy radiated, keyed-up and chaotic, and all of it converged on you. The man clicked his tongue softly. "Now why-oh-why would that matter to you?" 

The gravel in his voice couldn’t be missed, but it wasn’t a warning. It was more like an invitation. Something that hinted at things that were not to be missed, things you had a sudden and inexplicable itch to see for yourself. You cleared your throat, but your voice was still timid when you admitted, “You know, I’m honestly not sure. I guess I was…” and you felt you had no choice but to leave it there, your cheeks growing unbearably hot.

He ended up having to rescue you, again. But with his strange brand of profane charm, you were expecting something a little more suave than, “I dunno. Darts? Had my eye on a big stuffed jellyfish over in that direction.”

Your shoulders shrugged so hard that they nearly touched your ears. Shushing the logical part of your brain, the part suggesting that _ maybe _ it was a worse-than-bad idea to go traipsing around with a guy who obviously gave not one fuck about the blood smearing his front, had never been too terribly difficult. “Take me with you…?”

The aviators dropped back into place, along with that sly, scarred grin that showed too many teeth and should have really freaked you out. And not in a good way.

“Oh, abso_lutely_,” the man purred like a cat who hadn’t expected to catch the canary, holding out his elbow. “Come along, _mon petit chou_. For the night is young and full of promise!”

You sprinted back up the stairs to give Drew a solid kick in the side that made him gurgle and then tossed Beverly his camera. He caught it deftly despite his far-off look of someone trapped in a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from. But something about his hired help sauntering off with someone probably twice her age seemed to bring Bev out of his daze. He waved his arms spastically, but they soon fell defeated back to his side when he realized that your attention was fully focused elsewhere.

“Um, hello? What the fuck?” he called weakly. “We got two hours left!”

“So take it out of my pay, boss!” you shouted back, and he shoved off the railing with a huff to storm back inside. Trevor barked out a harsh laugh, and his eyes were positively sparkling when he looked you up and down. It made you feel like you were vibrating.

“I like you already, kid.”

\--

“So, you and Mrs. M, huh? There’s some history there.”

The dart flew at mach speed from Trevor’s hand, directly into the poor carny’s trucker hat, knocking it clean off his head. By some miracle, the guy was too soused to notice. Trevor looked dumbfounded, jaw slack, tongue worrying at the corner of his mouth. He went to adjust his suit jacket and only then seemed to realize that he’d taken it off somewhere. You’d seen him shrug out of it to roll up his sleeves for the ring toss, but you’d been too distracted by the veins standing out against the toned lines of his forearms to remind him to pick it back up.

“I was riiiight,” you sing-songed while he searched desperately for something to look at that wasn’t you. “There _ is _ history. It’s so obvious!”

“Ancient history,” Trevor grumbled, in a somber way that kind of made you feel bad for him. Then his eyes were on yours again, that same wild something flickering behind them. His smile was gentle, though. “Just like you’re gonna be if you don’t drop it.”

“And I’m gonna guess that _ Mister _ M is none the wiser, considering you aren’t disemboweled,” you pressed on, gleefully watching Trevor’s fingers start to drum the countertop. Almost daring him. The carny running the dart game had started snoring. “That or you have something really juicy on him...is it cartel? I always suspected cartel.”

“Man, you sure are a pain in the ass for someone whose ass just got saved,” Trevor grunted, his smile crinkling the corners of his dark eyes when you rolled yours. He sent the final dart flying expertly into its balloon target, a rude awakening for the guy snoozing beside it, and whooped.

“I don’t even get to pick my own prize?” you whined as Trevor shoved the gargantuan technicolor jellyfish into your arms. You couldn’t even see him over the top of its bulbous head, adorned with a sparkly pink bow. He squashed it down so you could see him mock-scowling.

“See what I mean? Pain in the ass. Now come on, there’s a sea turtle calling my name at the ring toss.”

Some unknown increment of time later, the two of you had taken in just about everything the neon-soaked pier had to offer, strolling idly along with a crowd of other wedding guests, comfortable and content in each other’s (and the jellyfish’s...and the sea turtle’s) company. You really should be going, you thought, and you also really _ shouldn’t _ be getting fond of how bold Trevor was becoming, rough hands lingering at your waist as he straightened up your aim at the shooting range. Hunching over you, essentially flush with your back as he helped you win a little shark plushie to go with the others at the crane game. All of which he ended up carrying when your arms got tired.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” You smirked at him, finally feeling brazen enough to call his bluff. The two of you had come to a halt outside the arcade, which Trevor had decried as a huge scam after losing approximately twenty dollars on several “Lucky Wheel” spins. Games of skill, no problem, but games of luck were another story. You got the feeling that that was just the way things worked for him.

Trevor’s face lit up boyishly. “Why, is it working?”

“Maybe,” you teased. You were very much not expecting the temperature to skyrocket at the sound of that one word, pleasant to tropical in an instant. The curl in his lips went from simple amusement to something much more cunning, calculating, reminding you again of that cat. It did funny things to your stomach.

Trevor took your non-denial as an invitation to step ever so slightly closer, so that your arms brushed against each other. Funny that he’d even need to do that, with how close he’d already been walking. But goddamn if that little spark that had been shooting around in your midsection didn’t burst into a full-fledged flame. You swallowed against your better judgment, and Trevor latched onto the bobbing in your throat like a starving animal. It made your tongue go numb. 

You added “But it really, _ really _ shouldn’t be” even though you were pretty sure neither of you were listening.

“Why shouldn’t it?” Trevor’s reply was low, rough, only loud enough for you to hear. His question echoed in your ringing ears as the rest of the world fell away. Trevor was well and truly in your space now, and you didn’t recall when exactly you’d let him corner you between the arcade and some other surely rigged game. He started toying with one of your earrings and his hand gave off the most gratifying heat against your cheek. With a dizzying suddenness, you wanted that warmth all fucking over you. “If you’re gonna screw up, do it while you’re young, I say.”

“Because I’m not,” you started, and sounded a little wheezy to your own ear. Especially now that he had moved from your earring to the shell of said ear, brushing it with a fingertip. Peering into your face like it was just the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. “Because I’m not doing this against the skee-ball tent.”

Trevor seized up, pulled back, his face a mixture of disbelief and _ utter _ disbelief, which didn’t make sense considering how intimate he’d just been getting with your earlobe. “Doing what?”

You took advantage of his moment of hesitation, because you imagined it didn’t happen very often. “Unless I misread the situation entirely, I assumed it was something along these lines.”

You discovered that his neck was as warm and strong as it looked when you wrapped your arms around it and pulled him down to crush his lips to yours.

Trevor exhaled sharply through his nose as though he’d been holding his breath for hours, the last of it coming out as a groan against your mouth that had your stomach in knots. His hands were immediately at the sides of your face, like you were going to turn tail and run any second, while yours gripped at his thinning hair. 

His wet kisses, all open mouth and searching tongue and shaky breaths, were needy bordering on desperate. So was the way his hands snatched disjointedly at your hips, your waist, your ass in a frenetic cycle that had you pressed up against him about as close as you could get. You didn’t know if it was because he hadn’t done this in a while, or if he was just always this enthusiastic. Either way, it wasn’t hard to get used to.

“Got an apartment,” Trevor huffed against your wrist, alternating between sucking and biting the tender skin there while his other arm locked you in place. The solid muscles that dug into your back, tensing and shifting under his heated skin; their strength was so much more welcome than being overpowered by...what was that jackass’s name? Who cared. You wanted to feel those lips, those canines, that tongue, against your throat, so you guided Trevor there and he hummed with satisfaction and your skin between his teeth. His very obvious erection had built quickly and pulled his trousers taut between you. You couldn’t seem to look at anything else. 

You spoke through the haze somehow, everything fuzzy and out of focus except for Trevor and his incendiary eyes, set deep under that low brow so that they always seemed to be watching from the shadows. “That so? So do I. Quite an achievement in this economy.”

He stopped his nibbling long enough to throw you a flat look that made you giggle. It gave you an opportunity to study the lush bow of his lips, the jut and cleft of his stubbled chin. Seeing you consider him like that, seeing your tongue dart out to wet your lips, seemed to really light a fire under Trevor’s ass. He pressed his mouth against yours with a jarring clacking of teeth that was really more an attack than a kiss while his _ fit _ fucking arms pulled you up almost to tiptoe. You hadn’t expected him to be so bestial. It gave you some pretty plausible ideas about what that mouth and those hands and that bulge could do in a less public environment. You were convinced in that moment that there was simply no way he wasn’t going to completely destroy you.

When he pulled back again, wiping away the string of saliva that snapped between your mouths, he panted, “Got an apartment...couple streets over…"

"Got a car to take us there?"

Trevor grinned and pulled you the rest of the way down the pier and you clambered into the beat-up red truck just a few minutes later, doing a fine imitation of someone who'd lost her damn mind. The threat of danger Trevor held in his eyes wasn't the type of danger you were meant to be afraid of, you realized. Quite the opposite. 

There was no telling how many red lights he ran or pedestrians he scared shitless while your fingers undid his top few buttons and carded through the hair of his chest, dug into his firm thighs. Guided along by what made him groan loudest, what made him hiss hardest. There was definitely almost a head-on collision when your wandering palms got their first exquisite taste of what he was hiding under those trousers.

You both cracked up when he reached beside you and covered Ms. Jelly’s googly eyes.

\--

"Floyd, Wade, out."

The red-haired man on the couch looked at the dreadlocked guy next to him before running his wary gaze over you, over Trevor's arm draped around your shoulder and his other hand clutching your ass. He grimaced in a tired way that said he’d been forced from his own home with some regularity. You have a little half-wave of consolation.

"But Jeff's comin' over, we're watchin' the game-"

"Fuck Jeff!" Trevor shouted, then shook his head as if to chastise himself. He dug something out of his pocket and tossed it. "Here, here's the office key, go take ‘im to the Unicorn and tell Leila I said you could watch it at the bar."

"Oh, sweet!" chirped the other guy, already stuffing the jangling keyring into his own pocket, seemingly oblivious to your existence as he all but skipped out the door.

"Just...just try not to break anythin' this time," whined the ginger man as he passed, and it wasn’t two seconds after the front door closed that Trevor seemed to be trying to do exactly that. 

He lifted you easily, hooking your legs around his slight waist, and was impatiently pinning you to the door in a way that verged on painful as he struggled to find the doorknob. 

“Never had a guy make his roommates leave before,” you said, mostly directly into Trevor’s mouth. 

“Never wanted to make a girl scream so much. Even _ I _ have some level of consideration for my neighbors.”

Your tongue dancing over his lips, feeling his scars, started him rutting against the inside of your thigh. He was in no state to guide himself, so you shifted your hips just enough to get that desperate hardness in its rightful place, grinding perfectly against your throbbing pussy. Trevor grunted when you gasped at the contact, then full on moaned when you gathered his lower lip between your teeth and bit down. It sped up the search for the doorknob considerably.

You kept that exact arrangement of limbs as he pushed into the room and collapsed you both onto the bed, not bothering to close the door behind him. He was all over you, his heat all at once overbearing and not nearly enough. His thighs turned out to be just as capable as the rest of his finely muscled body, holding you tightly in place while his hands got to work on leaving trails of goosebumps wherever they ghosted.

“It wasn’t a coincidence, y’know, me findin’ you outside with that prick” he growled next to your ear, lifting your shirt up and away, discarding it somewhere over his shoulder. He busied himself with your bra next, trading straddling you for being wrapped in your trembling thighs. Trevor’s words poured out unrestricted as he undressed you none too gently, a mumbled, stumbling admission. “I’d been watchin’ ya. All goddamn night. You were so fuckin’ cute, tryin’ to take my picture. I was gonna come out there and- what the _ fuck _ and _ hell _ is that _ noise? _” 

Some kind of sounds that potentially resembled music warbled into your consciousness. You considered it for a moment, head pounding too hard to do much else.

“Oh, for chri- he left his stupid fucking clown rap on,” Trevor grumbled, but you stopped his advance for the door by tightening your thighs around him, an instinctive response to the idea of this man _ not _ being pressed up against you in all the right ways, even for a second. The hunger that bloomed to life in those dark eyes as they dragged their way from your hips up to your face left you breathless.

“Come here. Edge of the bed,” he commanded, and that tone could have been all you listened to for the rest of your life. Trevor didn’t wait for you to obey, just yanked you into position. With your skirt flung off to the same mystery spot as your other clothes, you were expecting him to get rid of his own pants - it looked kind of painful, the way his dick was struggling against them - but instead he dropped to his knees between your thighs. Trevor wasted no time confirming your suspicions that he was probably the type of guy who gave head like an absolute dream.

He swiped his tongue up your slit so quickly, so mercilessly, that you cried out loud enough to startle yourself. Trevor teased and tortured, devastatingly slow slips of his feverish tongue that came closer and closer to the spot you needed him most, but always slid away at the exact wrong moment, dancing across your throbbing folds and turning your knuckles snow-white where they were fisted in his sheets.

“Oh- oh my god, _ Tre_vor-”

Trevor’s breath, hot and heavy, ghosted over your most sensitive spot. You jumped and squirmed at his unspoken command, powerless, paralyzed. He rested his cheek against the inside of your thigh, nuzzling into it, nipping, and his voice grated deep in his throat. “Mmmm, baby, my name sounds so fucking good in that pretty little mouth.”

Then his own mouth was back to its cruel game, stroking his velvet tongue _ achingly _ damn slowly in little circles around your clit, dipping into your entrance every so often and humming against you every time he tasted how soaking wet you were for him. Trevor added his wetness to your own, sucking you gently, and the rasp of his scarred lips working against you was unforgettable. When you cracked open an eye to see that gossamer muscle glinting obscenely in the light of the streetlamp outside, you also saw that he was palming himself gruffly. 

His long fingers did the best they could against the tight slant of his pants, only able to really brush against his length. It looked incredibly frustrating, not nearly enough, but it seemed to be doing wonders for Trevor. He couldn’t seem to keep his mouth closed, his voice trapped in his throat. The outline of his cock, the knowledge of what was to come, it all sent you hurtling.

Trevor slipped two fingers inside of you right as you hit your peak, still lapping ruthlessly at you, and it ramped an already shattering orgasm right the fuck up into the stratosphere. You moaned all the way back down and Trevor was happy to guide you through it, only pulling away when you whined and twitched at the overstimulation.

You lay there, floating in a fuzzy sea of endorphins, in danger of being carried right out to the coast if you weren’t careful. Trevor swam back into view, wiping off his glistening chin with the back of his hand, lazily working himself with the other. Watching you closely as you sluggishly put yourself back together again.

After what felt like ages, you found your voice, winded as it was. “Jesus Christ, you know what you’re doing.” 

He only stroked himself harder, biting his lip. “Doesn’t hurt that I really fuckin’ like the way you taste,” he breathed, voice already ragged, like he was already on the edge before you'd even touched him. Trevor made sure you were watching when he slid those fingers into his mouth to taste you again.

He was far too dressed, you realized, and keeping all of that to himself wasn't fair. Mouth watering, tongue firmly between your teeth to keep yourself grounded, you wrenched Trevor's belt open. His trousers were around his ankles with a clatter, taking his briefs halfway down with them. The sight of his cock, pulsing and slick, made your lips part all on their own, eager to taste him. Trevor’s voice broke free, his head snapped back.

"Oh, fuck, _ ohhhh, fuck- _"

You had Trevor in your mouth for only a few moments before he pulled himself out with a satisfying _ pop _ that made him grit his teeth. 

“As fantastic as I’m sure you are at sucking cock, I wanna last longer than thirty seconds.” When you pouted and crossed your arms, he chuckled, “Give an old guy a break, willya? Next time.”

You relented and reached up to show Trevor where you wanted him, on his back. He threw his clothes off with endearing excitement and went, scooting up to rest on the pillow. Only the one pillow, you noticed. He punched it into shape and settled back against it, eyes glinting with anticipation that he seemed to be trying to keep under control. You took in his plentiful tattoos, silly and often incoherent, just like him.

“Oh? And what makes you think there’ll be a next time?” You’d turned into quite the little minx this evening, but something about Trevor, the way he moved and talked and just _ existed _, brought it out. He didn’t answer, and with how closely he was watching your every move, you weren’t sure he’d even heard you. His attention was doing that thing to you, giving you that feeling like you didn’t ever want him to stop, so you slowed yourself right down. You watched him watch you, a little slack-jawed, as you crawled up to straddle him, your hands sweeping over the expanse of his tight chest.

“What do you want, Trevy, baby?”

“I want you to ride me, sweetheart,” he answered immediately, and his voice, that _ voice_, gave your arousal a perilous boost. It took a moment of centering before you could lift yourself up without the possibility of tipping over, but he stopped you. “Wasn’t expectin’ bareback, darlin’, though I do have my papers over there if you wanna-”

He choked on his words and his grip grew tighter and tighter as you guided him into you, inch by inch, until you were so full you could hardly stand it. All was still, and then the world exploded. 

You braced yourself against the wall, hands over his head, rocking up and rolling down, while Trevor came undone underneath you. “God, fuck-! That’s good, that’s really fucking good, keep going just like that, I’m gonna, oh _ fuck_, I’m gonna come in no time.”

The pleading look on his face when you ground to a halt was quickly replaced by one of heavy-lidded disbelief as you returned his earlier favor by taking your sweet time. You canted your hips, bit by bit, up to Trevor’s tip, but the absence of him was always too much to allow you to do anything but hurry back down and start again. Trevor could only handle so much. He sat straight up as if electrified, bringing you eye to eye. You used his shoulders instead of the wall to balance you, but Trevor wasn’t going to let you go anywhere anyway; he was clutching your hips like they were his last tether to the world.

“Tell me what you want, Trevor.”

“Hrnnghh, _ fuck-! _” He tossed his head back, and his handsome face all screwed-up was beyond sexy. “Fucking make yourself come on my cock.”

You would have loved to, but you couldn’t, because he was driving up into you so forcefully that his hands were sure to leave marks about your waist. It took mere seconds of that to make you do as he commanded, slicking him up even more as his name stumbled off your tongue and every cell in your body was incapacitated, unable to keep up with the coursing of adrenaline and raw pleasure rocketing through your limbs.

“That’s it, that’s fucking _ it_, baby, milk me dry, _ jesus_-”

You rode him through his climax, taking over when his hips stuttered, filling the space between you with a gasp and a sigh as he came, hot and thick, as deep as he could go. With that, your burning muscles finally failed you and you collapsed onto Trevor’s sweaty, heaving chest. Drawing in a lungful of the smell of sex and dirty clothes and weed while his heavy arms wound around you.

"_Hoo_, _baby_, what a fine fuck," he laughed, pumping his fist like a dork. "Had a feeling you would be. I feel twenty-five again!"

Trevor quieted down and skimmed his hands over your back for a while, surprisingly tender, threatening to put you to sleep. Groggily, you asked against his damp skin, “What now?”

He chuckled and tipped your chin up. “Wanna have a sleepover?”

You answered embarrassingly quickly, lifting your head. “I mean yeah, but...you sure?”

“Even if I did want you to leave, I don’t feel like drivin’ ya.”

“I can just call a cab,” you offered, greatly appreciating the view of him standing and stretching. Standing up still seemed a little outside your capabilities at the moment, but if he wanted you gone, you’d do your best. 

“You can if you want,” he shrugged. “_Orrrr_, you could come take a shower with me and then we could sleep until noon.”

You chose the latter. Trevor and the hot water worked in tandem to massage the soreness from your shoulders and you crawled into his bed clean and content. He snuggled into the small spoon position and you curled up behind, rubbing circles into his back. You chatted happily until your words turned to yawns - how did you meet Val, what exactly was your relationship with the photographer dude - and you didn’t mind that he preferred to remain a mystery.

“Hey Trevor?”

He jolted a little, and his words came out garbled and sleepy. “Yeah, sugar.”

"Who's Michael?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait! Personal junk, you know how it goes, especially around this time of year. Hope the slightly longer chapter made up for the delay.
> 
> Michael part 2 next, drama incoming....... :^)


	4. Michael II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Michael acting like a selfish, domineering prick (so what's new lmao)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all if I get any more amazing comments I will literally die. You guys are beyond kind and I don't deserve you 💖
> 
> THANK YOU especially for dealing with the long delays. If you're still sticking with me, you da real mvp

If you don’t leave this date soon, you’re going to kill yourself.

This guy sitting across from you in this trendy (read: criminally overpriced) micro-eatery is cute enough - fashionably messy hair, business-tech uniform - but there’s something...missing here. You can’t quite put your finger on it. The fact that he hasn’t left the subject of himself might have something to do with it.

“Information Technology is a pretty competitive market, you know,” he drawls, twirling his ironic french mustache. “I wouldn’t recommend going into it unless you have an IQ of at least, like, 120.”

You grit your teeth behind a tight smile and go back to pushing your food around your plate. And he’d seemed like such a nice guy online, too. He’s way too wrapped up in bragging about how his hands are registered as lethal weapons to notice you cover your snickering with your starched white napkin. 

It’s not necessarily _ all _ his fault that you can’t concentrate on his showboating, though. Shortly after you arrived, you could see someone in your peripheral double-take in your direction as they came through the door, but you didn’t think anything of it, doing your best to look interested in whatever nonsense this douche across from you was spouting. But as the evening wore on, the sensation of being watched settled on the back of your head, tingling and uneasy. It’s too much to deal with all at once. You have a limited time on this earth and this is not how you want to spend it.

Well, whatever. It won’t be the first time you’ve bailed on a date. Time to pull out a classic. He just nods without pausing his self-aggrandizing monologue when you excuse yourself to the restroom, apparently not noticing that you’ve grabbed all your stuff and left your share of the bill in cash. Typical LS narcissist.

The feeling of being tracked wriggles up your back as you weave through tables to get to the door, and only intensifies the closer you are to leaving. You plead with the universe that you aren’t about to run into some old acquaintance or something - you can _ not _ deal with forced social interaction bullshit right now. _ Fuck you_, responds the universe.

Right as you’re passing the maitre d’, a pair of pristine leather oxfords step directly into your path. You collide with something solid, reeling back until a rather sturdy arm comes out to steady you.

“Excu-” 

These are the ones. These cobalt blues are the ones that have been following your every move all damn night, you just know it. And you know them so very well. 

“Michael? What are you-"

“Pulling an escape, huh?” Thick fingers at your upper arm, insistent. You search Michael’s face for explanation, finding only that he is Not Amused. His lips are pulled tight and his eyes are sharply narrowed, mismatching his buoyant tone. “Let a pro show ya how it’s done.”

You don’t resist when he starts pulling, not that you’d have much of a choice. Michael is soft and stout, but his years spent on the football field have kept him far from feeble. It’s hard to keep pace with his long strides, and the fact that he’s basically dragging you along is starting to turn heads. You have approximately nine million questions, but you stick with the most pertinent.

“Where are we going?”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look back, just tosses his keys to the valet when you reach the sidewalk. His fingers dig deeper into your arm, flexing and retracting almost distractedly, as he stares off into traffic. But you know how his head works; you should, after all this time. He’s racing through every possible angle and outcome; if only you knew what exactly he was planning on _ doing _ with that information. His black Tailgater rounds the bend on the far side of the restaurant, ratcheting your pulse up a few notches.

“Mikey, where are we going?”

He turns his head away, foot tapping impatiently. The car creeps closer. You grip his hand, slotting your fingers between the ones leaving white marks on your skin.

“Michael, I’m scared.”

Something in your voice, in your touch, brings him back. Michael’s gaze flicks down to you, but he’s so good at hiding what’s going on behind it. 

The car rolls to a stop before you as he answers in monotone, “Emissary. We’ve got a reservation.”

You don’t bother prying any further on the silent ride. It will only annoy him, which in turn will anger him, and something tells you you’ll need him calm as can be.

You’ve stayed here with Michael more than once; it’s one of his favorite places to take you when he just wants to get out of his house for a weekend but doesn’t feel like travelling. There are quite a few cherished memories stored here. Long nights of five-star room service, private hot tubs, and, of course, fucking like rabbits every chance you got. Despite what he said, you know this reservation wasn’t meant for you. 

Once he’s checked in and heading for the elevator, Michael isn’t pulling anymore, probably confident that you won’t try to...what, get away? Why does he seem to think you'll bolt like a startled faun at the first opportunity?

You haven’t been in a penthouse suite in what feels like forever. It’s something you only really get with Michael. The art deco opulence is probably what draws him here; what draws in every nouveau-riche man with the heart of a boy still stuck in a Midwestern trailer park. You hear the soft click of the lock, the rustle of Michael emptying his pockets out onto the white marble countertop in the foyer, the click of a lighter and a deep inhale, while you look down through brocade curtains at a view that never gets old. 

“Is this a non-smoking room?” you tease. Michael throws you a flat look that makes your chest tighten as smoke pours from his nostrils. God, you’ve missed him. 

He’s standing at the foot of the bed, pointing down at it, expression stern; he feels worlds away, physically _ and _ emotionally. Modern sensibilities say you must resist this attempt to command you, but how is a girl supposed to stand her ground when her legs move all on their own? You try to compromise and merely come closer, send the message that you might not appreciate him railroading you out of a date and into a hotel room, but Michael has no patience for this and pushes you down by your shoulders, albeit gently, to sit in front of him. Maybe he wants you to feel small; maybe he wants the power differential clear. You’re navel-level with him now, peering up, unsure of who should talk first.

“Mi-”

“So, I don’t hear from you for a month. I barely see you for three. You have me on some kind of text sanction where you leave me on read two-thirds of the time.” 

Ah. You had a feeling this might be it. Michael’s pacing now. You watch his black oxfords scuff across the ornate carpet, too nervous to face his scrutiny. He barely sighs out what he’s breathed in before he’s beginning the cycle again, puffing out clouds like a nicotine-fueled steam engine.

“And when I finally start getting the hint, when I _ finally _ start to accept that hey, maybe it was stupid of me to think she’d ever wanna have anything to do with me in the first place, what happens? In all of the restaurants in all of Los Santos, I have to see _ you_, on a _ date_, with some Suburban-wearing, beatnik _ bastard_.”

“Oh, and you _ weren’t _ on a date?” You bite back from the edge of your seat. “That wasn’t your bleach-blonde walking pair of implants I saw shooting me the evil eye when we left? You always did have a thing for sentient blowup dolls, Mikey.”

Michael’s lips press into a line thin and sharp as a knife as he exhales heavily through his nose. “Oh, so _ you’re _ allowed to ghost _ me _ , but _ I _ ain’t allowed to-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head stiffly before bringing the cigarette back to his lips. He’s already finished half of it. “I guess my consolation prize was supposed to be the fact that you looked like you were about to pass out face-first in your dinner from boredom?”

“So what’s the problem here, Michael? That I’m not paying you enough attention, or that I’m fucking someone who _ isn’t _ a selfish prick that doesn’t give a shit whether I come or not?”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you clap a hand over it, like that will trap them inside. Thrown into silhouette by thousands of artificial lights streaming through the window, you only see by the orangeish glow from his cigarette that Michael looks lost, beaten, his jaw hanging open ever so slightly and his brilliant eyes dimmed by naked hurt. It feels like your chest is collapsing. What the hell happened between you and him?

“I just…” he starts. Then he squares his stance, clenches his fists at his sides, not one to stay conquered for long. His words come out clipped, like they pain him. “My therapist said I need to ‘communicate what I want more clearly’ in my relationships, so here goes fuckin’ nothin’.”

Michael closes the considerable distance between the window and the bed in two seconds flat and you can’t help but swallow when his shadow falls over you. His hands are on your shoulders again, squeezing, and he might as well be squeezing all the air out of your lungs as well. His blue, blue eyes come down level with yours, hypnotic.

“I want us to be together. _ Together_, together. Just us.”

Your instinct is to leap up and throw your arms around his neck, proclaim unwavering fealty, rescue him from the suffering your neglect has caused him, but you think of Trevor, and of Franklin, of how special they are to you, and you know you couldn’t just leave them like that. The thought of breaking up with either of them is just nauseating, imagining their faces and their words and their absence...it might be something akin to losing a limb.

“Michael, you know I can’t do that.” Your voice isn't wavering as much as you thought it would, considering the ball of conflicting emotions swelling up in your belly. “I told you that when we first started seeing each other. I told you I wasn’t ready to commit to much right now." You thrust your hands out. "And you said it was fine!"

“I know what I said, goddammit,” he grits. Ash from his forgotten cigarette falls to the floor, and he scoffs before turning to the potted fern behind him and stubbing it out in the dirt. “This is what I’m saying now."

Michael takes your hands in his and presses them to his chest.

“You _ know _ how good I can treat you. You know you can have whatever you need, whatever you want, _ anything _ you want.”

“It’s not- it’s never been about your _ money_, Michael-”

He brings your fingertips to his lips, dry and scorching against your cool skin. You want to be angry at him for reducing you to that level, to some gold-digging fame-chaser like that chick he just walked out on probably was. But his stubble scraping your fingers is way too good to fight.

“Then how about this?” Michael mumbles against your skin. “I can give you me. _ All _ of me. My heart’s yours to break, baby.”

You decide in that instant that you want this to stop. Michael hurting because of you, because of how you choose to live your life, is too much for you to handle just now, maybe ever. Even if it _ is _ his own fault.

“Ay, ay, ay, what-” Michael stumbles for words as his expensive leather belt is pried open by scrambling hands.

“Don’t do that,” he commands, his trousers now halfway down his thighs and his boxers shoved down just enough. "We ain't done here." But he doesn’t do anything to stop you. “Stop tryin’a...fuckin’...distract me…” 

Michael’s protests trail off into a groan as you move your open mouth along the side of his already-hardening shaft, leaving a sheen of saliva down his length. His hand immediately finds its usual place on the top of your head, tensing against your scalp. The amalgamation of several sounds that might have been words get caught and jumbled in his rasp of a voice, dying off, useless now. You take him all in, every thick, twitching inch, until his tip wedges firmly against the back of your throat. Michael likes to play the big, untouchable tough-guy, but you know exactly how to bring the facade crumbling down.

You swallow around him, coaxing him in deep, making him jump, while you knead into his tensed thighs with your fingertips. The rhythm he likes is slow, sensual, so you take your time, stroking your tongue along every vein with unrelenting pressure. For once, he doesn’t take over and fuck into your mouth, just lets you work his cock at your own torturous pace until he’s a stuttering mess.

“Jesus _ Christ, _kid, I, I-”

“I missed you too, Mikey," you hum, way too pleased with yourself for your own good. Michael looks like he plans to wipe that smile off your face.

"Up," he instructs, and once you're on your feet, he’s bent you over the bed, palm of his hand warm and strong on your back, urging you to your hands and knees. Your quivering arms hardly have the strength to hold you when his fingers slick themselves in your wetness, so you take the position he likes best, head down to the mattress and presenting yourself to him. Michael only snaps out of his trance when you whine at him.

“Come on, Michael, _ please_.”

You know your neck is going to be sore from how hard it snaps back when he complies. He wastes no time burying himself inside you, guided along by your clenching walls to the spot that drives you crazy. He has you by the hips, clutching your ass against him as he struggles to keep it together. But you don’t want him to keep it together. You want to unravel him, like you’re so good at doing.

Michael full-on yelps when you draw him out to the head and crash back up to the hilt, once, twice, but he likes to be in control too much to let you go on like that for long. He stills you with a growl, centers himself, and starts pumping right at the little bundle of nerves in your core with a determination you aren’t used to. 

Michael croaks something through a dry throat, but after several particularly good thrusts that leave you both gasping for breath, it takes you a moment to concentrate. You follow his finger to the floor-to-ceiling window you were gawking out of earlier. Those grey clouds that gathered over the restaurant as you left have let loose, raindrops distorting the city lights as they collect on the pane. The moment you have your palms pressed against the cool glass, Michael is right there, his hands covering yours, flush against your back, brushing your hair aside so he can leave his marks all over the spot between your shoulders.

He’s pressing his way up inside you again, huffing and feverish, when you grope back and put a hand on his side to stop him.

“Michael, Mi-, wait, baby,_ ah_, wait a minute.”

“What? What is it?” he pants, borderline crazed.

“I want to feel you, all of you-”

“What-”

“Your clothes, the, _ah_, condom.”

You can’t see him, but you know the gears are turning fast enough to melt. 

“You- you sure?”

You shoot Michael an exasperated look over your shoulder, only to see him tearing everything off as though it were on fire. He overtakes you again, the fine hair of his chest and belly at your back, the wave of cologne mixed with tobacco smoke that could only come from him, and every sense is nothing but all things Michael. It all culminates in a powerful need for him, your attention focused entirely on the new feeling of his bare cock grazing your lips, your clit, before he all but stuffs it inside.

“_ Oh_mygod_Michael- _”

“God, fuck, _ fuck-! _”

Michael ruts into you, anything but tender, but god, it’s incredible and just what you need right now. He seems to know that you need to feel claimed, or maybe he’s just that desperate to claim you. He twists his fingers into your hair at the scalp, tugs your head back while his other hand holds you against him by the neck while he grunts in your ear.

“This city- _ hah_, this city is mine, and so are you.”

His thrusts halt, fingers pressing into your windpipe just enough to alarm you.

“Aren’t you?”

You gasp against his clutch, back arcing and hips bucking all on their own, your brain soft with dopamine and adrenaline. The lights below have begun to blur and sway.

“_Aren’t you? _”

“Yes!” you squeal, and Michael releases you, resuming his ruthless tempo, uneven in a way that tells you he won’t last much longer. You brace yourself against the window again, whimpering at every jolt of his hips against your ass. The edge is fast approaching, and when you careen over it, you can hardly choke a sound from the raw tangle of your vocal cords. 

Michael pulls out abruptly and starts stroking himself at a furious pace, his cock absolutely dripping with your ecstasy.

“On your knees. Now,” he growls, pointing to the space between his feet. “And tell me whose you are.”

You obey, gripping his thighs as your knees hit carpet and burn, thrusting out your chest with shameless abandon. 

“Yours, Mikey, oh god, I’m yours-”

Michael’s thumb at your bottom lip coaxes your mouth open, your tongue ready to taste him as it dances along his leaking tip.

“Fuckfuckfuck, ffff_shit_-”

And with a strangled cry that cracks at the end, Michael is coming, aiming for your mouth but mostly spattering himself all across your cheek, your chin, your chest. It drips thickly from your chin to your thighs, from his tip to the floor, desecrating the lavish carpet. He watches you relish in his taste with lidded eyes and shuddering breath that verges on wheezing. 

Michael helps you up and pulls your face to his so he can kiss your forehead, grinning in that incredulous way he always does when you’re done.

“Fuckin’ A, baby, you were great.” Then, with a modicum of panic: “Wait, did you come?”

You weren’t lying earlier, even if you were a bit harsh. Michael can be a pretty selfish lover. (You’d never tell him, but you suspect that fact may have contributed to his wife’s serial cheating and their eventual divorce.) He has his set routine: shower, missionary for three or four minutes until he comes, ask if it was good right before passing out and snoring up a storm. If you didn’t hit orgasm in that short span, you were usually left to your own devices.

Tonight, though, Michael pulls you into the shower with him, scrubbing his come off your face and chest and out of your hair while he catches you up on his recent movie lot debacles. He even hums a little, uncharacteristically cheerful, and takes many an opportunity to drag his fingers along the constellation of hickeys he left, almost proud as he kisses each one. And when he's done, he wraps you in a bathrobe, brushes your hair, and ‘mhm’s and ‘uh-huh’s sagely while you regale him with thrilling tales from the land of nine-to-five. It's all definitely something you could get used to with him.

After, Michael deposits you diagonally on the plush comforter and your attention gets stuck on his naked torso. His smirk, his mirthful blue eyes that crinkle at the edges, his burly arms at his sides, one large hand holding his towel to his waist, his wet hair mostly slicked back save for one or two strands that fall against his lined forehead...all of it goes straight to your groin. Michael’s eyes are verging on dangerous as he crawls up, puts his hands on your knees to spread your legs, and, shock and awe, drops his head down to eat you out.

Michael isn’t the best at this - his tongue a little too harsh, his fingers slipping in a little too early and at an odd angle - but you’re not going to fault the man for trying, especially when he’s so enthusiastic. He more than gets the job done, anyway, swapping his fingers for his dick at your request and fucking you senseless all over again until you come again, long and hard and wailing for him.

“You know, you tried to act like you’d be willing to be Mr. Monogamy all of a sudden,” you tease when the two of you have settled in for the night, but your tone goes serious halfway through, edging on ridicule. “...but I know you better than that. You’re gonna have others too, Mikey. I know you are.”

Michael drapes an arm over your waist, runs his hand up and down your back, soft and slow. Some old movie he found on TV drones in the background, the sounds of shootouts and car chases drifting lazily to your ear. The effect is instant; you’re fighting a yawn all through his response.

“Eh, maybe-"

"See? You are so full of shit-"

"-but I promise you this."

Michael cups your chin, tilts it up to him so he can more clearly see your face in the lamplight.

"You ain't just a distraction, a'right? You're the main event."

You sigh, annoyed at yourself for falling under his spell over and over, and pull away from him. "Sure, Mikey."

"Oh, nuh-uh, you ain't gettin' away that easy." 

Michael tickles you until you beg for mercy, tears streaming down your face, and when he relents in favor of holding you from behind, he whispers that he's sorry.

"I'm sorry too.” You turn back to him and idly stroke his strong jaw in a way some might describe as adoring. “I can’t believe I said such a nasty thing. And you were right, I shouldn't have ghosted you. I just, I guess I let things get away from me."

Michael toys with a lock of your hair. "And _ I _ acted like, I dunno, a jealous prick. Well, I _ am _ a jealous prick. But you're still young. You need...I dunno, this. The freedom. And I promise you, sweetheart. I'll respect that."

He gets a skeptical look in response and puts up his hands in surrender.

"Alright, alright, how about, I'll _ try _to respect it."

In time, Michael's body heat becomes overbearing and you have to escape to the cool relief of the window, where the city below has come to glimmering, rain-drenched life. Michael's city. Any moment now, a familiar snore will kick off from behind you, like a lawnmower failing to start. 

“Michael.”

“Mm?”

He opens his eyes to find you raising an eyebrow at him.

“You really talk to your therapist about me? Didn't realize we were that serious.”

A pillow comes flying right at your self-satisfied smirk.

“Shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Franklin II 👀


	5. Franklin II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Franklin questions your judgment, Trevor questions your motives, and an inevitable downside of open relationships rears its ugly head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gee, Reader, how come your mom lets you have _three_ boyfriends?

You didn’t even make it two miles before you couldn’t stand to stare at that ‘cut here’ any longer without putting your mouth on every segment of the dotted line that you could reach.

“Figured we’d get somethin’ to eat,” Trevor’d said not half an hour ago, arms crossed and leaned back against his truck when you came down to the street to meet him. God, he looked good in those aviators, and his sleeves were uneven, rolled up just enough to give a glimpse of his inked, toned forearms. Perfect. He grinned when you let out a dreamy sigh and threw your arms around his neck, covering his face with kisses. “Y’know, go on a real date instead of just shoving parts of me into parts of you.”

Now, he’s hunched over you in the front seat of the Bodhi, which you’ve always thought would be a perfect place to fool around with him. 

“That’s it,” he huffs, his words punctuated by sloppy thrusts that tell you he’s about to lose it. “That’s it, that’s it, _ thaaaaaat’s _my girl.”

Your first time with Trevor, you figured he was just that desperate, touch-starved with a side of frenzy the way older guys often are. You expected that, the more you met like this, the more he’d cool off, until eventually he got bored and wandered off in his never ending search for carnal adrenaline. But now you know better. That’s just Trevor. He just runs hot.

“You ain’t got time to stick around?” He zips up, flops back against the driver’s side door, scratches his neck while you shake your head in response. “Well, shit, I’m starvin’. Was hopin’ we’d at least get some food before you had to go. So, what, you want a ride home?"

You pause your efforts to get your panties and dress situation settled to reach over and give his arm a playful shove. As usual, his dark, flickering eyes focus on the point of contact. Never satiated. “I told you when you texted me that it was gonna have to be a quickie, Trev. Don’t you try to guilt-trip me.” You break his gaze to smooth your hair in the mirror. Dammit. There’d be no question what you’d been up to if anyone saw you. You shrug and close the visor. “And no, I have to go to Vinewood Hills. I was just gonna call a cab.”

Trevor slides his sunglasses back on and coaxes the truck into deafening, exhaust-spewing life. “Come now, you know me better than that. ‘Quickies’ are not a practice I condone.” His tongue presses against one of his canines behind those smirking, endlessly kissable lips. “We might take a break, sugar, but we’re never done.”

He hums a laugh at your most common reaction to him and his antics: a one-two combo of eyeroll and heartfelt _ ughhh. _

“Don’t worry about it, _ mon petite chou. _ I gotta head that way anyway.” Trevor doesn’t bother to look around before guiding the truck out of the obscuring brush you’d insisted that he park behind for your spontaneous affair. The dusty construction access road wasn’t exactly ideal, but hey, you’ve gotta make do when inspiration hits. “It’s my buddy Frank’s 27th birthday.” He grimaces at you in the rear-view mirror. “ _ Chrrrrrist, _I hang out with a bunch’a kids.”

Huh. It’s also _ your _ buddy Frank’s 27th birthday. Your nerves needle you. No way, there’s hundreds of people in the Hills. The odds that two of them, both called Frank, are having 27th birthday parties tonight are...well, they’re...ummm… You know what, best not to burn that bridge until you’re sure you’re gonna get to it.

And oh, you’re getting surer by the moment, because Trevor is definitely taking all the same turns you would take to get to Franklin’s. He’s babbling away about something, gesticulating wildly, but the further you snake your way into the opulent neighborhood, the less you can hear him over the rush of blood in your ears.

“Are you even listening?” Trevor demands, taking a sharp left way too fast, lurching you and your already-distressed stomach. You clench your eyes and teeth against the sensation and pray you don’t throw up. “Sheesh, and here I thought we had somethin’ special. Good to know I’m just a fucktoy on a chain you can just yank around.”

“Trevor, I’m sorry,” you whine, “you’re just driving kind of-”

He puts the pedal to the floor and narrowly avoids an oncoming camera-covered Weazel van. You hear it spin out behind you, and pray this doesn’t end up on the news tomorrow. 

“So where’s _ your _ Frank live?” Trevor weaves between parked cars and honking traffic. Okay, now he’s _ trying _ to make you sick.

“Whisp...ugh…”

“Can’t hearrr ya,” Trevor sing-songs. 

If your teeth were jammed together any harder, they’d break. “Whispymound! You _ dick._”

“No way!” His theatricality knows no bounds. “Mine too! Small world!”

“Yeah.” You hold your forehead in your hands. “Microscopic.”

Smoke and trap pour out when Franklin answers the door, like a stoner mad scientist, but you’re too numb to laugh at the image. Trevor has his hand on the small of your back, but Frank’s too high and/or otherwise distracted to notice, as evidenced by his dopey smile. He reaches for your hand and you give it to him, watching from outside your body as he brings it to his lips in tender greeting.

“Good to see you, mama.” Franklin’s smile is dazzling, even buried beneath multiple layers of intoxication. He rubs your knuckle with his thumb. “Thought you was gon’ miss the whole thing.”

When you hazard a glance at Trevor, heart in your throat, you expect confusion, maybe even rage, but he looks like he’s just heard the world’s cleverest joke. Okay, that’s actually much scarier.

“Something _ came _ up,” he purrs, avoiding your pained sidelong look.

Franklin seems to have finally noticed his other guest.

“T, man, hey.” His brows knit when he sees how close the two of you are standing. He gestures between you with the hand that isn’t holding yours and asks, voice two octaves higher than usual, “Ya’ll came together?”

Trevor stampedes over whatever feeble answer you were concocting. “Not at all, homie, just happened to roll up at the same time!” He laughs and claps Franklin on the back before shouldering him aside, interrupting his bullish charge through the crowd to call back, “I gotta admit, Frankie boy, you sure do know how to pick ‘em!” Then, he’s gone.

Your stomach ache has ramped up to nauseating proportions, and the thin veil of pot-laced fog isn’t helping. Franklin has an apology in his sweet brown eyes when he turns back to you, still awkwardly standing under his porch light. It’s almost enough to make you feel better. He pulls you inside, where it’s much livelier. Not too different from the club you met him in. The good memory sets you a little more at ease.

“Sorry about T, he’s, uh…” Franklin trails off, and you empathize with his search for words that would accurately describe Trevor Philips.

“He’s alright,” you reassure him. You take a deep breath that you hope will convince your pounding heart to relax, at least enough for you to think straight. A little humor to deflect seems like the way to go. “Nowhere near as bad as Lamar, anyway.”

“_Psh, _ I wouldn’t go even _ half _ that far.”

Franklin looks out over the vast sea of revelers taking up every square inch of his massive house and spilling out the back door, some standing in close-knit circles, lots of others forming an impromptu rave around the massive speakers that send shockwaves through the floor with every beat. You wonder how many of them are strangers. Trevor’s truly vanished into thin air. You worry, but Franklin’s chest at your back, his arms around your waist, and his smooth voice in your ear center you as they tend to do.

“Come on, baby. It ain’t my birthday ‘til you dance wit’ me.”

There’s smoke and cologne in your mouth when you turn in his grasp as best you can to face him, looking up at his doting expression. God, this could ruin everything. 

“I need to talk to you.” You’re surprised you don’t choke on the words. 

Franklin’s shaking his head, face buried in your neck. “Not ‘til I get my dance.”

You sigh, partly out of frustration and partly in response to his plush lips working against your skin. “Franklin, it’s important-”

The doorbell sounds its cheerful tones over the music, and you hear Chop barking from somewhere in the distance. Franklin pulls away with a quick kiss to your temple and a promise to come find you in a bit. You stand there for some time, watching Franklin welcome new waves of visitors, thinking that you might go find Chop and just spend the party with him. Who knows how long “a bit” is. The contact high alone will have you solidly baked before then.

Passing through the writhing crowd helps lift your spirits, but you turn down Beverly’s and Lamar’s offers to join them. You’re fine on the sidelines for now. Especially when you see Trevor off in a corner by himself, dual-wielding red plastic cups. From across the room, you watch him drain one and toss it under the feet of some unsuspecting passerby. When the guy trips, he catches himself and whirls on Trevor, but beats a hasty retreat in the face of Trevor’s vicious snarl. You should not find this charming, you think.

What you _ really _ don’t find charming is the chick with an unfortunate haircut and a face full of piercings sidling over and striking up a conversation, her ring-laden finger lingering at Trevor’s chest when she points out his Circle Jerks shirt. There’s an obnoxious smugness in his smile when he spots you fighting your way over to him.

“Well, fancy meetin’ _ you _ here!” Trevor crows, tipping his cup at you, then at her. “This here’s-”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Um, excuse me,” the girl scoffs. “That’s kinda what _ we’re _ trying to do. Go be thirsty somewhere else.”

Pot, meet kettle.

“Two seconds,” you snap a little harder than intended, slotting yourself between them with your palms at Trevor’s back. “Then he’s alllll yours.”

His grin is downright devious. “Well now, _ this _ oughta be interesting.” 

Trevor goes along when you push, comes along when you switch to tugging him by the front of his shirt, stumbling only a little with his drink still sloshing about in his hand. He follows you down the glass stairs to the long, dim hallway where the bedrooms are. You’re struck with the memory of Michael’s locked bathroom and it isn’t difficult to imagine what might be going on behind these doors. It’s not empty like you’d hoped, but the scattered couples are far more interested in sucking face than your little lover’s quarrel. Plus, the thumping music is dulled just enough down here that you can hear yourself think.

“Trev-”

“Swell little game you got goin’ here,” Trevor growls. His grin was just for show, it seems; it’s melted away into a scowl, cast into relief by the overhead lights that makes it all the more off-putting. Dangerous, even. “Makin’ me wanna tear my own friend’s throat out.”

You adjust your dress to give your hands something to do. “That’s what I wanted to tell you - I swear I had no idea-”

“This a scam you run all across LS, or were we just unlucky enough to be part of the trial run?” He clicks his tongue. “And on Frank’s _ birthday, _ too. For shame.”

“Trevor, _ stop, _just listen to me.”

He finishes off his drink and lowers the cup, eyebrows raised, expectant. “Well? I‘m listenin’.”

“Look,” you sigh, and resist the urge to pace. Trevor always finds a way to amplify your nervous energy, and you need him to not do that. “I never, _ ever _ date within friend groups. As you can imagine, it doesn’t…” And here come the memories. The arguments. The headaches and heartaches. You swallow against the rising knot in your throat. “...doesn’t usually turn out too well.”

Trevor checks his watch like he has somewhere to be. “And your point is?”

“Oh, sit down, will you? God, you’re insufferable.” Your glare brings back his smile, but it’s not as sarcastic. Softer. He reaches forward and pinches the meat of your arm until you yelp, like the mature adult he is. “Stop it. I’m _ try_ing to tell you that I never would’ve done this, any of this, if I knew. I mean, what are the odds, you know?”

“Small world,” Trevor says, for the second time tonight, and lets the silence linger a moment. Then, he pounces, dropping his cup and forcing you across the narrow hall and against the opposite wall, all teeth and tongue and not nearly enough of his plush, scarred lips. Punishing you. His liquor-scented breath fans across your face in hot, shallow bursts as your fingers find their way to the back of his head, gripping his hair the way he likes. 

“Trev, we _ can’t-_” you try, but he’s switched into that mode, already hard against your thigh. Probably always hard. _ “Trevor-” _

“Uhhh.”

Oh, jesus. Franklin. The absolute last goddamn thing you needed before you had a chance to explain. He’s peering from Trevor to you and back again, jaw slack, as your arms drop to your sides uselessly. This is how you die, isn’t it?

“Frank-”

Trevor cuts in. “Don’t mind us! I accidentally swallowed my gum and this thoughtful young lass was trying to help me find it.” He beams down at you. Franklin could easily be mistaken for a statue. “Weren’t you?”

You just narrow your eyes. Trevor practically sashays back to the steps, guffawing in his gravelly way.

“I’m off! Places to be, people to do, you know how it is. You kids have fun, now!” He hops up the steps in twos, then leans over the top railing to shout, “Oh, and Franklin, bro. She likes it when you-”

_ “Trevor!” _

Pure evil. Franklin stares after him, dumbfounded, while you try to remember the cool and collected way you’d come up with to tell him that you were apparently seeing his friend. His _very_ _close, much older_ friend. Dear lord, what a mess.

Franklin adjusts his backwards cap, fiddles with his earring. “So, what, uh...I mean, how did…”

You take Franklin’s much larger hand in both of yours, and that seems to comfort him some. “Franklin, I promise you, you don’t want to ask any of the questions you’re thinking of asking right now.”

He just nods, relieved, and laces your fingers together. Neither of you have a clue what to say, until you remember the whole reason you’re at this party in the first place.

“I brought you a present.” Franklin clearly disapproves of the sentiment and starts to object, but you fan your fingers out as you give the disclaimer, “It’s nothing crazy, promise.” 

His smile is small but boy, does it have the power to melt hearts. “I told you not to get me nothin’,” he protests. You just shrug, dipping your chin to your shoulder coyly. “Tell you what. You go up an’ get it, bring it down here. I’ll be waitin’.” Franklin gestures to his bedroom door, and it stirs your already mixed-up insides.

He can’t keep his hands off you once the door’s closed and locked. He’s definitely sobered up since you first got here; when he’s too high, Franklin’s content to let you do all the work. This thing with Trevor seems to have ignited something though, something needy that you don’t usually see in him. Fine by you.

You clutch the carefully-wrapped parcel to your chest while Franklin pins you against his bedroom door, stealing the breath from your lungs, his hands on your ass.

“I didn’t bring this just to hold it, y’know,” you tease when he pulls away to catch his breath, tapping the small box against one firm pec.

“A’right, a’right,” Franklin relents. He takes a couple steps backwards and sits on the bed, inviting you to join. You crawl up into his lap, straddling him, hands on his shoulders while he tears into the gift. The wonder in his eyes when he lifts the silver-plated watch from its velvet trappings makes every cent worth it, and then some.

“Oh shit, this is...where’d you find this?” Franklin tosses the really fancy-looking gold watch he had been wearing up towards the pillows so he can snap the new one on and admire it. Well, new to him. “Shit, that musta been, what, six months ago I told you ‘bout that watch.”

“Wasn’t easy,” you admit. “I had to scour some pretty shady forums. But when you told me about the one you used to have...I don’t know. I knew it meant a lot to you.”

You remember that night quite well. Staying up all night with Franklin on the couch, the TV on more for background noise than anything while the two of you polished off the last of the overpriced wine and swapped bittersweet stories. He always gets a little soft-spoken when it comes to his childhood, but that night, when he told you about the cheap, bulky watch he’d had to hock just to eat during one of his mom’s benders...you could’ve sworn Franklin was on the verge of tears.

As a matter of fact, he looks a little misty right now, the reflection staring back at him from the watch face a good fifteen years older. And a lot happier, hopefully. He doesn’t say anything else, just holds you close, head resting on your chest while your fingertips meander through the soothing texture of his cropped hair. When you wiggle away a few moments later, Franklin is hesitant to let you go.

That is, until you start to sway to the muffled but very audible beat thumping from overhead. 

“You still want that dance?” You slip one strap of your dress down and Franklin’s eyes can’t decide between that and your softly swinging hips. He bites his lip.

“Oh, _ fuck _ yeah.”

The music guides you in your striptease, first kicking off your heels, then drawing your dress up over your head, all in time with the rhythm. Franklin hasn’t stopped gnawing his lip, but he’s started to get hard; you can see it easily from the middle of his room. He tries to stand when you prowl closer. 

“Uh-uh,” you chastise, nudging him in the chest so he stays down, pushing him so he lays back. “The birthday boy doesn’t do any work.”

“Can I touch, at least?”

You make a show of thinking it over. An intriguing proposition. Your smile is cruel when you answer, “Mmmm, no, I don’t think so.”

Franklin groans and runs his palm along the bulge straining behind his zipper. “Come on, baby, damn...”

You push his hand away and replace it with your groin, grinding down hard against him.

“_Fuck, _ girl.” Franklin lifts his hands to grip at your hips, but stops himself when you _ tsk _ at him. 

You kiss him slowly, wet everywhere that counts, and make yourself come on his lap, just from the rock-hard pressure of him against your core and his tongue in your mouth.

You can’t fit him in said mouth all the way - just the part you _ can _ manage always leaves you with a sore jaw the next day - but it never seems to matter. Franklin isn’t the most vocal, so you count it as a point of pride that he’s grunting profanities above you right now, especially when you swirl your tongue around his head. You take your sweet time, giving him the attention he deserves, rewarding him for letting you take care of him.

Franklin explores you while you pleasure him, breaking the long-forgotten no-touch rule by skimming your curves, especially his favorite part. He’s a breast man through and through, and capturing their silky softness in his hands, the bud of your nipples between his fingers, always gets him so worked up that he has to take you, especially when you’ve got him in your mouth. Tonight is no different.

Franklin suits up and situates himself kneeling behind you, tormenting your swollen clit with his leaking tip, one palm flat against the dip in your back to steady you. You don’t have time to scold him for taking over; he’s already halfway in and the friction warming that little bundle of nerves deep inside is absurdly, mind-numbingly good. The stretch is something you don’t think you’ll ever get used to, in the best way possible.

“Franklin, baby, move-”

He does, and he goes slow, like always, letting you feel the way each individual nerve ending sets alight.

“That good?”

“Fuck, yes, _ god, _ just like that-” 

You reach down to your slick clit and god, it’s all going to be over way too soon, isn’t it?

“You gonna come for me, girl?”

There’s no better answer than the quaking of your thighs, the tightening of your pussy around him. Franklin sucks in a breath through his teeth and freezes right at the tail end of your orgasm, cutting it off prematurely.

You puff bits of hair out of your eyes when you look back at him over your shoulder. “That’s not _ fair._”

“Now when you ever left here after comin’ one time?” Franklin retorts, and he’s right. He gives your ass a light smack. “You just hold on, you know I’mma take care of you.”

Franklin keeps his promise. Exhaustion starts setting in around climax number four, when he’s got you bouncing on his cock. Your thighs burn and your hair keeps getting stuck to your sweaty forehead.

“Franklin-” And he knows it’s time.

“Sorry, you just look so good, fuck.” His lidded gaze pierces you, starting the buildup to your fifth orgasm with its intensity. “You ready for me, babydoll?”

You nod and pant, letting him contort you into his favorite position to come in - face down, ass up. Like a switch has been flicked, Franklin gets brutal with his hips, careful not to bash into your cervix but ramming into you all the same. You’re going to come at the same time, you can feel it.

“Fuck, Franklin,_ touch me-_”

It cranks your spine up in a way that tells you you’ll be hurting tomorrow, but having Franklin’s firm stomach crushing into the curve of your ass, forcing your legs apart so he can knead the most sensitive part of you with trembling fingertips, it’s better than you could have asked for. He rides you through your last yelping orgasm, then yanks himself out of you, rips off the condom, and strokes himself into the white-hot bliss of painting your back with come.

With a quick but thorough cleaning (along with a new pair of pants), Franklin’s ready to rejoin the party with you, but wavers when you linger at the bedside, still only half dressed. He comes to press you close to him again, and only then, wrapped in his iron-strong arms, do you realize how tired you really are.

Franklin’s voice rumbles through his chest, tinged with faint amusement when he says, “I was ‘bout to ask what’s goin’ on with you tonight, but shit, then I remembered.” He pulls away enough to meet your eye. “I guess that’s what you was wantin’ to tell me earlier, huh?”

“Uhhh…” You’re definitely too drained to relive the turmoil of an hour ago. “Yeah. That was it. Great birthday surprise, hm?”

Franklin steps back and squeezes your hands in his. “Damn, baby, I gotta admit, that shit was…” He gets those distant eyes again.

“Fucking weird, right? I know.” You make sure he’s looking at you. “I’ll be a lot more careful now that I know, I promise. Okay? This isn’t, um...dating people who know each other isn’t usually the way I operate. Strictly forbidden, actually.” 

“Shit, I’m almost thirty,” Franklin sighs, like he just realized it. “That’s what’s _ really _ fuckin’ weird. Gangbangers ain’t ‘posed to make it this long.”

“Don’t say that,” you plead. His gentle smile as you stroke his jaw, the kind that warms his eyes, the kind he saves especially for his girl, nearly makes you tear up for some reason. “I hate it when you talk like that.”

He just nods, charmingly flustered, and reaches for his ballcap to slide it back on before kissing your forehead. “You stay down here long as you like, baby. Shit, it’d be nice to wake up next to you on my first day this side of 27.”

“Oh, well if you _ insist. _” You hop into Franklin’s impossibly comfy bed and burrow in under the comforter. “Just make sure you come back to me.”

He turns back when the door stands open, waiting to welcome him back into the fray. “It ain’t gon’ be right without you.”

You giggle. “It better not be.”

If you have your way, Franklin will wake up next to you at 28, 29, 30...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted the conflict between F and T to be a lot more, I dunno, shouty? But I decided that I needed to write something a little more light-hearted. For now. We'll see if I can't muster up the courage to write something heavier next chapter.
> 
> As always, feedback is my lifeblood. I will literally grovel for comments. 
> 
> Thank you so much, and look out for Trevor Part II!!! I love writing my feral little bastard man.


	6. Trevor II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insert obligatory apology for taking so long here - I happened to have my comp and final project in the same week, so that destroyed me inside and out but I'm fine, so really!! But now it's all out of the way and I'm set to graduate next month, so I have a lot more time to write and disappoint my parents in various other ways.
> 
> If you follow my other fic, update coming soon ok bye!!

Maybe it's laughable, the stereotypical LS opulence, but you could swear there's nothing better than laying next to Michael on a deck chair, by his pool. Getting sun-drunk in the summer haze while he holds your hand and smokes and bitches about work, or people, or whatever comes to mind.

Nothing's better than that, except maybe when he moves the pool party to the pool itself. You watch with great fond amusement while he shimmies out of his polo and dives in, resurfaces with a whoop. That slick smile, half genuine and half devious, always entices you into the crystal clear water with little effort and less pretense. 

Your conversation might continue for five, ten more minutes, before the closeness of your mostly-naked body becomes too much for him. It's practically a given at this point, and today is no different.

Michael works himself up at a moment's notice, dipping a hand down the front of your bathing suit and finding your clit easily while he grips himself through his trunks. You don't mind a bit that he's backed you against the edge and the concrete is scraping at your spine, not with his hungry kisses to overwhelm you.

You hold onto his thickset shoulders for dear life, let him get you right to the edge with his thick fingers. There's next to nothing you can do when he's so insistent, so focused like he is right now, like he knows exactly what power those icy eyes and that scalding voice hold. The knowledge that he’s used them on so many others is just background noise.

"You like that, sweetheart? Feel good?" His voice weaves lazily in and out of your greyed-out senses.

"Mikey_ \- _"

"Wanna move this inside?" 

Damn his voice. Damn his eyes. You don't know how much longer you can take him circling your clit with long, drawn-out strokes, and you couldn't care less how desperate you sound when you agree, "Yes, god, Mikey, please."

You go where he tells you, happy to let him take control every once in a while. It gets him going like nothing else. Ever since that night at the Emissary, he's been so good. Might as well let him have his way. 

Michael points to the couch, palming himself furiously at the sight of you dripping wet in your suit and waiting on his word. The way he takes his time raking his gaze up your body, the feeling of his undivided, fevered attention...it's so, so good.

"On your knees, not your hands though-"

"But your couch cushions, you don't want me to grab a towel-"

Michael grabs hold of the back of your neck with one powerful hand. His tone is firm as his fingers and thick with the same deadly potential, measured and enunciated. "On your knees, I said."

He pushes you to kneel, then stumbles out of his trunks and stands behind you, already breathing shallow but trying to hide it. He takes a moment to run his hands down your sides, grunting in approval when he feels the goosebumps breaking out all over you in almost painful waves.

"God, I never get tired of looking at you," Michael mutters, rubbing the head of his cock along your slit, collecting every silky drop you have for him. You have to guide him to your entrance if you’re going to get any relief, and he misses once before nudging in, just enough to get a rise out of you.

"Come on, baby-"

"Come on, what?" You can hear his stupid smirk in his stupid voice. Bastard.

"God, fuck me, Michael."

That's all it takes. Michael has you coming within a minute, once he starts bucking into you, his tempo calculated, tailored to you. 

"Don't fucking stop, Michael, whatever you do, don't stop-"

"Oh, don’t you worry, sweetheart, that ain’t - fuck - that ain't anywhere on the agenda.”

The afternoon sun beats down on your backs through the open patio door as Michael fucks you toward a second orgasm, not bothering to keep quiet. You try to face him, but the angle's too awkward - you jostle Michael off of you so you can lay on your back. He holds you in place by your shoulders, eyes closed hard like they usually are when he's close to the edge, because seeing you wrecked by pleasure always rams him right over it.

"You're a whole new man, huh, Mikey?" Your tease is labored, broken up by your struggle for breath, but no less true for it.

"Didn't wanna...couldn't lose ya, sweetheart." Michael's damp forehead drops to the crook of your neck, and his words come out hot and wheezy against your skin. He doesn't have much more in him, no matter how cocky he tries to act. "Man's gotta change when his girl ain't happy."

And you're glad to show him the fruits of his labor when you come again, clawing at his back, squeezing him with your thighs. When you finally open your eyes, Michael just looks lost in the moment, jaw soft, brows drawn, staring down at you all throughout what have to be his last few sloppy thrusts.

"Christ, kid, I- I think- ah, _ fuck_," he stammers, and you see that Michael is utterly terrified of the words lodged in his rasping throat. "I think I- I lo-"

An unearthly _ shriek _ tears out from the foyer doorway. "Jesus _ Christ_, Michael! God _ damn _ it!"

Michael jumps out of his skin and at least two feet away from yours as you scramble to cover yourself with a throw blanket.

"Aw, what the fuck!" he roars back. He only has his hands for modesty until you toss him one of the copious throw pillows. "What's the matter with you, you forget how the fuckin' doorbell works?"

"How dare you, Michael James Townley, how _ dare _ you! This is my fucking house too, you fucking- you _ animal!" _ The woman's reddening face turns to you, along with a manicured, accusatory finger, and oh yes, you know exactly who this is. You’ve seen her, but only behind the shattered glass of smashed wedding photos. "Who the fuck is _ this _ slut?"

Time to go. The screaming exchange storms into the kitchen, growing ever louder and ever more harsh while you scurry about gathering your stuff, a thousand and one urges all overlapping and conflicting inside.

_ Confront her. Stand up for Michael. _

_ He can take care of himself. He deserves it for not changing the locks like you suggested. _

Michael’s past made real is a little too much to handle at the moment. He isn’t quick enough to stop you when he spots you bolting for the open front door.

"Ay, _ ay, _ where you goin'? Baby, come on, don't-"

You're in your car, still drenched in your bathing suit, cursing and jittery, before he can try to change your mind.

\--

That was about a week ago now, and you haven't heard a peep out of Michael. 

It freaks you out, because being found balls-deep in a woman half his age can't look good in his divorce proceedings, even if he and his wife _ are _ separated. So you just stay out of the way. If Michael isn’t texting, there must be a reason. 

But it’s not like you’re getting much help from anyone else to ease the pain, either. 

Both Franklin _ and _ Trevor have been missing in action since Franklin’s party a couple of months ago.

Franklin still texts, at least - he says things have been crazy with work and you really, really want to believe it, even though he’s never been all that straight-forward with what that work actually _ is. _(There was that line he gave you about being a bank robber the first night you met him, but come on, that’s ridiculous.)

Trevor, though, has just gone completely off the grid. Not a word since he kissed you at the party, not even a good old-fashioned 'fuck you'. 

You’ve been dumped before, and you’re not one to keep chasing if the person clearly doesn’t want to be caught, but you guess you weren’t expecting it to hurt this bad. Especially since Trevor’s the last man you know who you’d expect to run away. _ Especially _-especially since he’s given you the explicit promise (threat?), multiple times, that he would have to be dead for that to happen. (Or, wait, does it not count if it’s said in the heat of the moment?)

That fact combines poorly with your suspicion that he’s into some...shady stuff that he hasn’t been clear about (you’re starting to see a trend here). To be fair, you’ve never asked. Knowing Trevor, he's strung up by his feet in some Lost clubhouse because he looked at them funny. Hell, maybe Franklin’s past finally caught up with him, too. Maybe Michael’s past snatched the gun he keeps in his kitchen drawer and cut him down.

And all the while, the thought nags at you, tugging at your brain stem: you aren’t supposed to care this much.

At the bottom of the steps that lead up to your floor, you’re too wrapped up in your own thoughts and looking over this new influx of bills to notice someone lurking in the stairwell, off to the side where the corner of the building casts a shadow long enough for them to hide in. You live in LS, for god's sake. You're used to the idea of not being safe until you get in the front door and lock it, and maybe not even then.

Then, that someone moves. The pepper spray on your keyring is aimed and ready to fire before they get close enough to try anything. 

“Hey now, I didn’t know it was that kinda party.”

Your arm and your jaw drop simultaneously.

_ “Trevor?” _

He creeps closer now that it’s clear you won’t try to blind him. “The one and only, baby.”

You really don’t expect the flood of indignation that washes red over your senses, and Trevor looks surprised to see the scowl that twists your lips. Your righteous anger comes out in your stomping footsteps up to your door, in your head held high, in your refusal to look at him as he scrambles to follow.

“Well, at least you’re _ outside _ my apartment this time," you mutter, fighting with your inexplicably unsteady hands to get your key into the lock. Trevor hasn't said anything, just stands at your back with his hip brushing yours. "Pretty good boundaries, for you.”

You don't bother trying to keep him out. You're not even sure you want to, and Trevor senses the uncertainty like blood in the water, because the second the door closes, he stakes his claim.

He’s right up behind you, pushing you into the kitchen counter, while you're trying to put your stuff down and sort through your mail. He susses it out right away - nothing but pretense. The cabinet knob is digging into your thigh and his hard-on is digging into your ass. You scold him, even as he gropes you.

“Trevor, come- come on, can’t we, can’t we talk?”

Your hands go to his, aiming to stop their hurried exploration, but you both know it's pointless. He already has you defenseless and grasping blindly for whatever you can find to steady you.

“Don’t wanna talk,” he grunts, pressing you further, until the edge of the counter hits bone, until it starts to hurt.

Oh, no, he's not just gonna come in here with this bullshit. He owes you an explanation, dammit, and he's gonna do it facing you like the man he always insists he is. You wriggle and he loosens up enough for you to turn.

“So, what, you straight-up disappear and then just...show up all of a sudden? Because you’re horny?"

Trevor stills for a moment, actually looking a little put out. “You can just say you missed me, you know. Pride is for the weak.”

“Oh, yeah?” you scoff. The fucking balls on this guy. “Why should I?”

Trevor’s dark, turbulent eyes hide nothing when he says, slowly, as though speaking too loudly will render the words powerless, “Because _ I _ missed _ you._”

His frankness, not exactly habitual among the other Los Santosans you've gotten to know, has a way of flustering you.

“I don’t get...I don’t get an explanation-” he cuts you off with a kiss, but you pull away before it gets too deep “-or, or anything?”

Trevor just shrugs. “I was busy. Now I’m not.”

He says this with a tone of such obviousness, as though it were a perfectly acceptable reason, as though you should just be fine with it, and goes right back to biting. His canines wrench out a yelp when they sink into your shoulder. God damn his ego, and damn your body even more for agreeing with it.

Trevor slips his hands under your waistband to squeeze your ass, and the skin on skin contact affects you a lot more than you'd like. And you know he senses this too, because he always reads you with the ease of a flashing neon sign, whether because he knows you or because he just _ knows_, you can never figure.

“You want an explanation, huh?” Trevor's voice is all breath. Yours doesn’t seem to be working. He lifts you by the hips, just enough that he can jam the bulge in his jeans against you. Utterly artless. “I was doin’ bad shit. Awful shit. Shit that would make you fuckin’ hate my guts." He seems to find an angle he likes, huffing and sighing as he starts rocking. "Is that what you wanna hear? Huh? That what's gonna get me what I want?"

There's nothing you can say to that, other than "Trevor, my back-"

He shifts to set you on the counter, rougher than necessary, sending papers fluttering and upsetting various knickknacks. The scars adorning his knuckles, full of ink and history, seize your attention when his fingers move to undo your zipper. You think of how, the first instant you saw these marred hands, you wanted them to do exactly this.

“Get these pants off. I’m eating that pussy.”

A shiver rocks your shoulders. “_Jesus, _ Trevor-”

He tugs. “_Off._”

"Well why don't you do it, you want them off so bad?" you snap.

Trevor's grin is cheshire-esque at the challenge. Your pants are in a pile at his feet like they teleported there, but he takes his time with your panties, inching them down your legs like they're some kind of awe-inspiring relic and not just a bit of cloth, digging his fingertips into your yielding skin whenever he can, trailing kisses punctuated with nips from your hip to your knee. You couldn’t look away if you wanted to.

"What, are you gonna keep them?" you goad, “Put ‘em in a shrine?”

He chuckles deep in his throat, and it sounds just as pleased as it is pleasing. "Don't tempt me."

Trevor's knees hit the tile with a painful-sounding thud and he brings your thighs to rest on his shoulders. You jump when he flicks the point of his tongue from your entrance to your clit and growls in sordid delight.

“Mmm-_ mm _, how’d you get so sweet?" His eyes are blazing when they connect with yours from down between your legs. "Like Tupelo honey."

You manage to roll your eyes. “Enough with the cheesy porn lines.”

Trevor makes you eat those words, gladly. He prefers giving head to getting it, which is just fine with you, because he is _ so _ damn good at it. It’s a mental image you’re sure will come in handy later, your legs spread wide and your palm pressing down on Trevor's dipping head, keeping him between them, unable to stand the thought of him stopping.

And then he starts _ sucking, _keeping up the writhing pressure from his tongue, and that's that. 

You're coming with a squeaked, "Trevor, fuck, _ fuck- _", your head so far back that you feel your neck start to cramp up. When he rises to his feet, you see he’s already got his dick in his hand, stroking himself steadily, twisting at the tip. You swallow when you see the tell-tale glisten of pre-come.

"That gets better every fuckin’ time." Trevor slicks up his fingers in you, uses your wetness to ease his strokes. Seeing his knees buckle a little, watching his eyelids get heavy, it twists your insides in the most appealing way. 

"My turn."

He all but yanks you forward, turns you so he can bend you over the counter, and you find it slippery with the product of your pleasure. That's all well and good, but your back has taken all the abuse it can handle.

"Trev, can't we move some- somewhere a little more comfortable?”

“I’m plenty comfortable, darlin’, but thanks for askin’.” 

You make sure he knows that he’s the only one who finds him funny.

“Oh, don’t gimme that look. C’mon, over here.”

The whole thing looks ridiculous, him guiding you through your living room with his junk hanging out, humming tunelessly, but you suppose that’s all part of his charm. His inescapable, pestilential charm. 

Trevor leads you to the old Bergére chair by the window, which is cracked open just enough to let in any breeze that may be merciful enough to alleviate the Los Santos heat. Of course Trevor picks up on that, and of course he gets that dreadful insidious look. He snatches your hand away when you reach up to close it.

“Ohhh, no you don’t.”

You open your mouth to whine at his cruelty, but Trevor’s gibe of “You think your neighbors don’t already hear you, sugar?” shuts you up right quick. You hate him, and he loves it.

You think he means to sit and let you ride him, his favorite way to take you, but he lays you on your poor back across the arms instead, thankfully padded but still only one half-step up in the comfort department. It doesn’t matter for long, anyway. 

Trevor shoves his way inside with a shudder and a guttural sound, losing his balance a little, and gives you almost no time to adjust before he gets moving. With how soaking wet you are, it'd be impossible for him to stay still anyway. And as ever, Trevor is your vocal boy.

"Look so fuckin' good takin' my cock, fuckin’ gorgeous, jesus _ fuck-_” 

Right then, the pad of his thumb bumps up against your clit, and though it’s rough, it isn’t clumsy in the slightest. You hiss, choking back a moan, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, but he sees. 

"C'mon, my little exhibitionist, let 'em hear ya sing. Let ‘em hear who’s makin’ ya.”

And you do, you can’t help that you do, because Trevor works on you, works _ for _ you, tirelessly, like it’s the only thing that sustains him. He starts going a little rougher when he feels you begin to tighten around him, hard enough to make your ass and tits bounce, and his hands go to them as if magnetized.

"Every fuckin' day, every fuckin' _ second- fuck- _all I could think about was makin' you come."

"Trev, god, _ ah-_” You grip at his forearms, feel the wrought-iron tension in them, the heat in your belly starting to spiral out of control. “Keep going, just like that, I’m, _ god, _ I’m-”

You’re clenching him hard, the muscles inside drawn upward all at once, and the thundering pulse of your orgasm forces Trevor to the breaking point, groaning long and loud as his come spills out of him, hot and thick. The last few thrusts are weak but they’re good, because he gives you one of those rare, gentle looks and brushes your damp hair from your eyes. 

Trevor usually doesn’t linger too long in the afterglow, too high-strung to sit around unless he’s trying to sleep, so the fact that he pulls out almost immediately isn’t too surprising. You don't want to have to scrub the chair later, so you just lay there and recover. You can almost ignore the pain in your back with the breeze rolling over you like this, gently ruffling the curtains and cooling the sweat rolling down your sides. There’s some distant shuffling, but you're too loopy and lightheaded to check what Trevor's up to.

He's standing over you when you sober up, hand out to help you stand. The towel he used to clean off is in his other hand. The cutesy one with the animals.

"Ugh, really?" You take it anyway, but not without a hefty sigh. His laugh is villainous.

You search around for your panties, but get distracted by the light from Trevor checking his phone. He pockets it, heads back to the kitchen and pulls his beat-up old denim jacket on, as nonchalant as if he hadn’t just fucked the daylights out of you. You notice with a sour taste in your mouth that he's wearing that Circle Jerks shirt again.

He doubles back to give you a kiss that's too pure and decent to be anything but a goodbye kiss. 

"Well, darlin', it's been fun."

"So you really just came over here for a booty call," you grumble, tagging along to the door once it’s clear your panties will require some detective work to find. "Oookay. That’s definitely fine and not top-tier fuckboy behavior."

Trevor has his hand on the doorknob when he looks over and replies, matter-of-factly, "I got businesses to run. Employees to manage."

You throw your hands up and turn away. "See, I knew there had to be something. _ Business_."

Actually, it's good that he's going, if the text you just got from Michael means what it usually means - _ need to see u. _

Trevor's typing on his own phone while you tap out your response, heart starting to rise to your throat - _ You know where to find me. Just give me like 30 minutes. _

"Well, bye, I guess." It comes out mopier than intended. 

"Hey now, don't pout, _ mon petite chou._" Trevor grabs your chin and you pull away even though it makes you smile. "I ain't plannin' on goin' home for at least a couple days."

“Well I’m, um- I’m busy tonight.” You jump in a little too brashly, unable to recover before Trevor’s onto you. 

His face melts into a shit-eating grin. “Franklin?”

You push at him, urging him through the door you’re hiding behind - with a firm “None of your business.” - before shutting it at his bootheels and locking it for good measure.

You go to the kitchen window overlooking the street to watch him go like always (half making sure he actually leaves), only to see...to see...oh, _ shit. _

Michael. 

Leaning on Trevor’s truck. 

Which is blocked in by Michael’s Tailgater.

There’s no way, there is literally _ no fucking way. _

When Trevor sees him, Trevor’s got his arms out to the sides with a saunter and a shit-eating grin that means, unless you’re mistaken and there _ are _ benevolent forces in the universe...Trevor fucking knows him.

Michael is pointing at Trevor, and not in a hey-pal-I-haven’t-seen-you-in-forever kind of way, his mouth tight and reluctant to spit out acidic words that you can see and practically _ feel _ but are much too scared to open the window and hear. 

Trevor stops dead on the sidewalk, stiff as a board, face shifting rapidly from smirk to frown to _ snarl_. Defense to offense, just like that.

The yelling starts, Michael first, and oh god, they're walking toward each other. Michael rolls his neck and Trevor clenches his fists and you're about to be the key witness in a murder case.

In your mind, you’re dashing to get dressed, sprinting down your building’s stairs, stopping the train wreck before it starts, but in reality your body is cast in carbonite and just as cold.

Then your panties, the ones you’d been wearing until about half an hour ago, fall out of Trevor’s jacket pocket and onto the sidewalk.

Then there's just...nothing.

Horror of horrors, Michael drags his hollow stare up to your window, where you're very clearly naked and very clearly watching. His face freezes into a completely new emotion that has no name. 

Trevor stops shouting and follows his gaze, and the look on _ his _ face is no more comforting with its trickster-god levels of wicked amusement.

At least ten years is subtracted from your lifespan in that instant, which is fine, because when they both start for the stairs, you retract what you thought at Franklin's. 

_ This _ is how you die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"The Less I Know The Better" starts playing*
> 
> Originally, I planned on leaving it there and letting you choose your own adventure, because 6 is a nice round number,  
but what if i added...an extra chapter...  
haha nah just kidding  
unless...?


	7. Ending A: The Time Has Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I TOLD Y'ALL I WAS WORKING ON IT

The storm is coming.

You can hear it all the way at the bottom of the stairs, thunderous overlapping voices ricocheting up the stairwell, calling each other every name under the sun, and soon to be doing the same to you, surely. 

You open the door again, hoping to avoid it being torn from its hinges, and heaving black clouds are already darkening your doorstep, literally blocking out the sun. Two titans, four crackling eyes glaring down at you, practically glowing with a cocktail of conflicting emotions; emotions that you can feel as much as see. It's enough to make you believe in the divine.

You can't be sure who to look at, which glare to wither under, whether to stand your ground or try your luck at escaping and giving it a shot in some other city, in some other country, on some other planet. 

They move into the kitchen all at once, jostling for position in a space too small for one person, let alone two 6-foot-something, seething brutes who could at any second decide that fists are the only way to settle things. 

Michael's face has gone an impossible shade of scarlet that makes you fear for his heart. Your hands are out already, whether trying to comfort or create distance, you don't know. Michael's mouth is clamped too tight to form words, breath coming in shaky bursts through his nose, so Trevor has to speak first, and his tone is cruel and mocking as he closes the distance between the front door and you in two long-legged strides. That oh-so-familiar jackal’s grin has always been unsettling, but never as unsettling as it is now.

"We're gonna have us a little _ talk_, missy."

The explanations all try to come out at once, their coherence not helped along by your wild gesticulating.

"I- but I didn't- I _ swear, _I didn't-” You hold your face in your hands and mumble, “...this is so fucked up."

"_You're goddamned right it's fucked up!_" Michael roars, and your head nearly touches the ceiling with how hard you jump. 

He paces the short span of the kitchen, muttering and rubbing his palm repeatedly over his stubbled chin (all while Trevor gleefully follows every movement with that trademark touch of insanity in his eyes). After a moment of this, he seems unable to move, fisting his hands in his neatly-combed hair. 

"Jesus Christ. Are you-” a breathless laugh “-are you _shitting me?_ I mean are you _actually_ _fucking kidding right now?_”

"Michael-" You reach for him, but Trevor interrupts.

"Eloquent argument, Mikey!" He cackles like he should be in a straightjacket. "Now allow me to retort!”

He holds out a finger at a fuming Michael, then swings it over to you. He really looks like he’s enjoying himself, the sick bastard. 

“I'll tell you exactly what I told Franklin.” Trevor licks his lips as he shakes his finger at you. “If you wanna fill some kind of daddy void, don't let it be with this overstuffed...stuffed...shirt! _ Fuck! _”

Okay, so apparently he _ isn’t _ enjoying himself. Trevor lets loose a throaty sound that may have been part dog and tromps over to the wall. You reach out again, this time for Trevor (and partly for the sake of your security deposit, because you’ve seen this man’s headbutt-y relationship with walls), but it’s Michael’s turn at the plate apparently, because he steps up, blocking you off, standing just as close as Trevor was a moment ago, close enough to feel the heat of his temper.

"Either you're _ entirely _ oblivious, or you're just as fucked in the head as he is!”

“What-” You awkwardly still have your hands out, sort-of reaching for Trevor, your eyes trained up at Michael’s and not blinking for anything. “Michael, what are you talking about?”

Trevor’s back in the fray, practically foaming at the mouth, veering wildly between rage and amusement with all the destructive fervor of a malfunctioning carnival ride. “Yeah, yeah, go on ‘n tell ‘er, Mikey. Tell ‘er what a bad boy ol’ Trevy’s been, tell ‘er-”

“Shut the _ fuck up, _ Trevor!”

Trevor snickers and claps his hands while Michael rounds on you again, pointing in the other man’s direction. 

“This, this bottom-feeding _ degenerate _ is a fucking _ meth dealer_, alright, he- he-”

Trevor’s face pinches with outrage, right back to fury in a snap.

"Oh yeah, and that's so much worse than being a backstabbing fucking turncoat, you fat _ fuck!_” Trevor grits through his grinding teeth, “_Fuck. You._”

Michael rolls his neck and shifts his weight and you’ve got to step in right now or the neighbors will be complaining about a lot more than the noise.

“_Stop it!_” You plead, and put your arms out between them, like that will do any good. They stare at you - Trevor’s eyeballing the hand held out closest to him like he might bite it off - and you feel ridiculous and very vulnerable all of a sudden in just your flimsy bathrobe. “You’re grown fucking men, will you please just stop?”

“Stop? Why?” Trevor’s lilt is so effortlessly vicious, his movements theatrical. “Oh, you mean, I _ shouldn’t _ tell ‘im how I _ just _ finished raw-doggin’ you over that chair in there? Oh! Oh!” He sweeps an arm toward where you and Michael are frozen in place. “Wait, wait, or is the thing I _ shouldn’t _ tell him that, right before that, I was makin’ you drip all over that counter he's leaning on?”

Michael recoils like something bit him. He looks between you and the antique Bergeré.

“In that chair? The one _ I _ bought you?” Michael doesn’t wait for a response, just hulks off, fists at his sides, growling under his breath, “God _ dammit_\- Fuck this. _ Fuck this!_”

Trevor watches him go, face unreadable but legitimately scary, and you think that, if Trevor could set fires with his mind (and there’s no doubt he’s tried), this building and possibly the whole complex would be filing a mother of an insurance claim.

"Y’know what, he’s right," Trevor says after a moment. "Fuck this."

Without affording you the courtesy of a backward glance, Michael has disappeared through the still-open front door, Trevor following closely behind with all the eagerness of a two-hundred-pound puppy.

The storm starts up again, barely muffled through the walls and much more caustic. Just like before, you watch them through the window, prepared to call any number of emergency services, but once they’ve traded some unintelligible words in the parking lot, they both throw open their doors and leave in a cacophony of squealing rubber and tire smoke.

You don’t want to give yourself even a moment to process what just happened, or how, or why, or _ ugh_. That’s going to require at least three different kinds of booze right there. Your finger hovers over Beverly’s number for a second, only long enough for you to realize that he’s going to be worse than having no help at all. So you swipe a little ways down the contacts list. 

The line rings until you’re sure you’ll be sent to voicemail, but:

“Downtown Cab Company-”

“Franklin, I fucked up.”

Crackling silence, but only for a second.

“Where you at? I’m on the way.”

\--

Franklin’s taking fares near Backlot City, so it takes him a bit to get over to you, but he keeps his word, just like always.

When he steps out of the cab, he looks mostly at the ground and seems very interested in readjusting his backwards ballcap.

“I’m sorry I ain’t called, I just been…” He trails off, noticing your unbrushed hair and bleary eyes. “Uh, busy.”

The fresh air does your mind good. You ride along in the passenger seat, chin resting on your arms in the open window while Franklin eases both of you up through the Hills and back down again. He drifts lazily to a backdrop of smooth R&B, delivering Los Santosans to this ritzy party and that, sliding a little of his tip to you every time and refusing to take ‘no’ for an answer.

“You sure the company’s not gonna get mad at you?” you have the wherewithal to ask after a few hours of this. “Considering how many groups you’ve turned down and all.”

Franklin smirks over at you. “Girl, all these cabs is mine. I’m just helpin’ out.”

When you lean into him, laying your head on his shoulder, he drives with one hand so he can stroke your hair with the other. 

He wakes you half an hour later by hooking your arm around his neck and lifting you from your seat bridal-style to sit with him on the hood of the cab.

It takes some vigorous eye-rubbing, but there’s no mistaking where you are, and god, it’s so easy to understand why people flock to this city in the millions. The view is life-changing from up here, parked between the ‘E’ and the ‘W’ of the ‘VINEWOOD’ sign. It’s far enough away that you can almost forget the complete disaster you’ve created. Almost. 

Franklin holds onto his thoughts (and his breath at some parts) until the end of your backwards and very tragic tale.

“Damn,” is all he can come up with. He scratches the back of his head and laughs awkwardly but stops abruptly when he sees how dejected you look.

“I know, I’m awful,” you sigh, and you hate that Franklin has to see the tears sliding down your face.

“No, that ain’t- look, c’mere.” Franklin scoots you closer to him with ease, and feeling a kind human touch after everything that’s happened is verging on a religious experience right now. He slips an arm around your waist, and you answer in kind. “You know I’mma always have your back.”

“Yeah,” you laugh, surprising yourself with how bitter it sounds.

Franklin shrugs his sleeve down far enough to cover his hand and swipe some of your tears away.

“I mean it. It’s gon’ work itself out.”

"If you'd seen the way Trevor looked at him, you wouldn't be saying that at all." You sniff, using your own sleeve to dab the tears this time. "It wasn't too different from the way he looked at _ you _. God, Franklin, what if-"

Franklin shakes his head. “If Trevor ain’t do anything to me when he found out at the party, he ain’t plannin’ on it.”

You study his face, which looks extra nice framed by a halo of artificial city lights.

“How do you know?”

Franklin’s eyes go skyward and he rubs at his goatee.

“I can’t really explain it any better than dude is, like, a walkin’ impulse, you know what I’m sayin’? He ain’t exactly the plottin’ type.”

You laugh again. “I really, really do.”

“And Michael, look, me and him been through a lotta shit." He looks away and seems to contemplate carefully before finishing, "If I gotta share you, I don’t mind it bein’ with him.”

“And Trevor?”

"Long as I don't think about it too hard."

You laugh for a third time, at the absurdity of it all, at how ridiculously well Franklin is taking all this (because of course he is). Franklin squeezes you a little tighter and presses a kiss to your forehead, somehow healing and breaking your heart all at once. 

He clears his throat. “Just, y’know, if I end up hangin’ upside-down from the top’a the observatory without my skin, well, you know who to send the FIB after.”

\--

Both of them text. Michael leaves voicemails. Trevor doesn’t, but he makes up for it with about a thousand more calls. Your phone has become a minefield in the week since the...thing. You think you might have to start measuring time by whether something happened before or after it.

Beverly is even somewhat comforting. He only _ kind of _ implies that you deserved it.

You hold out as long as you can, ignore the messages, go through the daily motions and try to get your mind right before addressing any of it. It’s Michael who breaks you first, though, with his signature line, one he knows is going to get your attention: _ need to see u _

Too many factors to mention go into your impulsive response: _ you know where to find me _

Those three little dots have never been so terrifying. They pop up about four times and you’re losing your mind in the Bean Machine line.

_ uh-uh_, he eventually replies, _ u’ll have to find me _

You start typing out an incensed diatribe about how there’s four million people in this city and about a billion places he could be in it, until Michael sends a picture. 

Seeing him is enough to do your weary heart in, and you can’t even see all of him. Just his shoulder - bless him, he’s terrible at taking selfies - and the backdrop that he plainly wants you to suss out. The crimson beams of the Oriental Theater are impossible to mistake for anything else.

_ wear that dress i got u _

_ Could you be more specific? _

_ black one _

_ backless _

_ with the heels that have red on the bottoms _

_ Are you finished? _

_ Or did you want to dictate my jewelry too? _

Another picture. You can see him from the chin down this time, reflected in a mirror somewhere. He really does look illegally hot in suits, and his all-black tuxedo has got to be your favorite. You have to tear your eyes away from his jawline, quell the rise in your stomach that comes with imagining burying your face there, huffing his name in his ear and feeling him unravel. 

_ we should at least match _

_ how fast can u be here? _

Of course you put on the dress. And the heels. 

\--

You could kill him.

You could honestly, legitimately wring his neck. And hell, you could probably get Trevor to hide the body for free. 

The only problem would be the photographic evidence captured by the hundreds of flashing cameras pointed your way. Following the hundreds of microphone-carrying reporters. You could kill him.

“Michael!”

“Mr. De Santa, over here!”

(You notice Lazlow Jones busying himself with the lead actor and verrrry conspicuously avoiding Michael’s line of sight.)

Michael does what Michael does best. He schmoozes. He charms. He’s gorgeous. He pulls you along with an iron grip and deftly ignores your threats of a violent death. Did you mention he’s gorgeous?

“Mr. De Santa, answer a few questions for the _ San Andreas Post_?"

You know that voice. It's another one you could strangle. Michael shows off his megawatt smile and heads over before you can grab his sleeve.

“_Michael_,” you snap, “don’t-”

"A few questions like, where’s your wedding ring? And who’s this?”

This, of course, sparks a drama feeding frenzy that spreads like wildfire through the other newshounds, and you may well be struck deaf and blind by the results. You mime a beheading at Beverly, who just clicks his shutter in your face and grins. 

“Oh, hey, yeah, I know you!” Michael says with mock surprise, loud enough for several other reporters to hear, shaking Beverly’s hand. Beverly beams with pride. “You’re the guy who threw up all over my tennis court with your ass hanging out!”

Michael pulls you closer and leads you to the door without another word. Despite the mob of paparazzos descending on him (_ironic_, you think again), Beverly looks more incensed by your condescending little wave than anything.

It's no secret that Michael's perception of romance is about as black-and-white as the movies he’s obsessed with. It can’t help but come out in the films he makes himself (makes _ for _ himself?), and that's why you usually can't stand to watch them. Michael knows this. You make up for it by listening to him talk about them at length, so much so that you could probably write a pretty convincing essay on his filmography. 

Speaking of which, he leans over to you now and whispers, "Y'know, they're playing this for the Film As Art class at ULSA this semester."

You sneak in a kiss before he can get too engrossed in his own bullshit again, but his eyes are already one with the screen. You huff and resign yourself to another two hours of overwritten, underlit nonsense.

And then you notice something.

This film's love interest is...different. She’s fierce. Uncompromising. Doesn't take any shit from the male protagonist, doesn't magically fall for him just because he wants her to. You can feel Michael gauging you out of the corner of his eye every once in a while, which he usually doesn’t bother to do. (To be fair, you wouldn’t see it if he did, because you’re usually snoring by this point.) It actually startles you to feel his hand close over your knee as it bounces with excitement.

You peek over with raised brows. "Michael, this is _ good._"

His chest swells even as he looks a little bashful. 

"I may've taken a few notes from the lectures you gave me." He squeezes your knee. "The many, many lectures."

The inevitable sex scene doesn't even feel all that inevitable. It actually feels...natural. The will-they-won't-they makes it all the more captivating. And way more intense.

This is when you feel the hand on your knee start to creep, sliding up and up, pausing to knead at your thigh before slipping under your skirt. 

You shift away from the person seated to your left, who isn’t looking anyway, and catch Michael by the wrist before he can get any further (even though you'd really, _ really _like that). 

"_Stop!_" you hiss, but you're grinning.

Michael shrugs and leans in again, his stubble scraping your jawbone when he whispers, "Can't help it. You look so fuckin’ good."

You weaken your grip, like you had a choice, and Michael's fingers jump at the opportunity to get to work, massaging you over the skimpy underwear that you'd debated even putting on.

He looks momentarily baffled when he feels how wet you already are. You tilt your head toward the big-screen lovemaking and this seems to thrill him enough that he gets more insistent with those thick fingers, pushing the sodden fabric aside and bringing the wetness up to your clit. All while he just sits there and pretends to watch his god-forsaken movie. You clutch his arm and the armrest so tight that you fear you might break one.

“Mikey,” you whine, and _ that _ sure gets his attention. He stops stroking and gives you a look that goads you into demanding, “I need you.”

“You got it.”

And he’s pulling you around again, this time up through some staff-only backrooms and stopping at a door marked _ PROJECTION_. It only takes fifty bucks for the teenage employees inside to clear out, and then it’s just you and Michael in this tiny, cluttered room that smells strongly of weed and Axe body spray.

Michael plops down in a folding chair next to the table that holds the humming machinery responsible for playing his movie to the audience below. If you peek through the little window, you can see some of them, and a few are even awake. Good sign.

“Look at this,” he remarks with disdain, gesturing to the beast of a projector. “They don’t even put it on film anymore. It’s all digital. Y’know-”

“Where have you been?”

Michael leans back, props one foot up on the table and leaves the other on the floor, leaning the chair back on its hind legs, the very picture of smug. You are definitely not distracted by him parting his legs like that, or by the way his thighs fill out the crisp, straight lines of his trousers.

“The beach, mostly.”

That snaps you out of your lecherous daze. “Huh? The beach? _ You?_”

Michael shrugs, starting to rock and pick at his cuticles. “I go there when I need to think.”

“And smoke,” you guess.

He smiles on one side. It makes your dress feel too tight. “‘Ay, this city’s one big ashtray anyway.”

“Yeah, because of assholes like you.”

The smile’s on both sides now. “You got me.”

You step closer, knowing Michael will take notice. He stops his rocking when you get close enough that his face is chest-level with you.

“And what were you doing all that thinking about?”

He takes advantage of this closeness right away, bringing your wrist up to his lips. You try not to make too obvious the degree to which your knees are jellifying.

"Killing Trevor, mostly."

It's hard to tell with Michael. Just because he's looking you in the eye (ugh, his _ eyes_) doesn't mean he's telling the truth. But you can't be sure, so you scold him, just in case. It comes out pretty pathetically, because Michael has started working on your other wrist.

“_Mikey_.”

“_What?_” He jerks his head back and away from your hands, still holding them in place. “What the hell else am I supposed to say? I ain’t exactly brimming with brotherly love at the moment. And it wouldn’t be the first time I wanted him dead.”

He says it so effortlessly, a simple statement of fact.

“You don’t mean that.” Michael’s already got his mouth on you again, working his way up your forearm, not at all deterred by talk of murdering his best friend. “He’s told me about it. About you guys. How you-”

“_Christ_, can you not bring that up right now? Please? I ain’t above begging.” He sees that you won’t be distracted, and sighs like he’s just collapsed one of his lungs. “Look, you think _ I’m _ easy - Trevor’s prob’ly got kids by half the women on the west coast. At least _ I _ got the decency to wrap it up.”

You blink at him.

“Your point being?”

Michael huffs again, rubs briskly at his nose. “My point _ bein’ _ that you’d get even less monogamy from him than you’re gonna get outta me.”

“That’s a lot to unpack.” You tilt your head at him, finger on your chin. “I’m confused. Is your major flaw projection, or denial?”

“Denial. No contest.” He hits you with that smirk again, looking up at you from under furrowed black brows. You study the crease between them, the ones that climb his forehead, the ones that bracket his knee-weakening eyes, and feel a surge of that terrifying feeling that he almost confessed to you on his couch. “We can work out the kinks later, sweetheart. I paid those guys to leave because I wanna _ fuck _ you in here, not because I wanna figure out what happens after that.”

“Hopeless.” You roll your eyes again; you swear you spend most of your conversations with him looking at the ceiling. His frown softens considerably when you plop down into his lap, straddling him and wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands gravitate to your hips. 

“_Fuck, _ I missed you.”

And that will about do it for the coherent thoughts for a while, thank you very much.

Michael starts on the flimsy straps of your dress right away, pulling them down your arms while trailing his fingertips along your skin, leaving a nearly-painful wave of goosebumps to radiate from wherever he touches. Oh, and he’s got his tongue in your mouth all the while, can’t forget that.

Within seconds, there’s pressure against your clit, and you’re quite forcefully reminded of what feeling Michael get hard does to you. He pulls you out of your haze when he guides your arms through the straps and pushes the bodice down over your bare breasts, groaning quietly when he sees you’re braless. His large hands - lighter without the weight of the ring to hold them back - go right to them, gingerly tracing your areolas with his thumbs before moving them to tug just enough on the very ready buds of your nipples. His hips twitch underneath you when you give him the very quietest, sweetest ‘_ah_’ in reply.

“Your tits’re- fuck, they’re incredible.”

You try to keep your cool, despite your obvious panting. “So you’ve said.”

There’s going to be a hell of a wet spot when you’re done, but that’s a problem for future Michael to sort out. The silken luxury of his suit rubbing up against the insides of your bare thighs is going to actually make you lose consciousness, you’re sure of it.

He rests his forehead on your shoulder, forcing you down as hard against his cock as he can, rolling his hips into you with no real rhythm and a lot of impatience. His stuttering breath fans down over your bare breasts and in this moment, it's hard to believe that things will feel even better than this. Much better.

“How we doin’ this?”

“Noooo,” you groan, “don’t make me think right now.”

Michael, of course, takes this as permission to do what he pleases. He pushes on your bare thighs, his touch there a maddeningly arousing thing that doesn’t last long enough, and nearly drops you to the floor as he stands and pulls you up with him. In one swift movement, he’s backed you up against the wall, kissing you breathless. He yanks your skirt up and runs his hands along the spot where your legs meet your waist, which gives you the idea to undo his belt. You both hold your breath when you’ve got his dick in your hand and start stroking him, cramped together with no recourse in the small space. The movements are totally graceless, the urgency amplifying your arousal.

"Open up," he commands, but gently. Your knees part themselves of their own accord.

He tries to push his way in while you still have one foot on the floor, one leg wrapped around his ass, dress shoved up around your middle unceremoniously, but he's too tall and too stiff to bend enough and the angle’s all wrong and you need him a lot quicker than he’s currently moving.

"Mikey-"

"I gotcha, baby," he coos, "I gotcha." 

He hoists you up like you weigh nothing at all, and your legs anchor you around his hips, jamming yours against them, sloppily, messily connected. His dick rests somewhere against the warm, soft space between your thigh and your pussy, and you can feel him pressing into it, rocking against you, desperate not to lose the pressure even for a second. 

"Mikey-" you choke, "_please._"

He lifts you just enough to slot himself inside, and this whole arrangement nearly goes toppling to the floor with how suddenly and completely he seizes up. His face is scrunched like he's in pain, then he lets a deep breath come hissing out through his clenched teeth.

"Shit, I gotta be more careful," he chuckles.

Then, he’s moving. Thank god, _ finally, _ he’s moving.

Michael is certainly the most vanilla out of the three - whether by decades of repression or simple preference, you don't know - but he's by no means boring. It's the voice, you decide, watching and feeling him pump into you, hearing his rasping and grating and cursing. No, it's the eyes, you decide again as he opens them just enough to gauge your reaction, and seems surprised to see you studying him. No, no, it's none of that, it's all of it, it's, it's-

"_Michael-_"

He looks a little spooked by the sudden entreaty. His hips stutter.

"Wh-?"

"Oh, fuck, Michael, I'm- I'm-"

He groans, catching your drift and picking up the pace. 

"Shhhhhit, _ fuck_, come on, sweetheart, show me."

The sensation clawing up your spine forces your eyes closed and your jaw open, forces your fingertips into the thick muscle of the arms that hold you steady. You hold on for dear life and surrender completely to the way Michael’s making you feel. He guides you through it, and while you're coming down, you notice he’s still moving. 

"Not yet, oh, fuck, not yet-"

Tongue-tied, you slur, "What- what do you need, what should I do?"

"C'mere," is the only explanation he offers. He lowers you onto legs that definitely aren’t fit for walking on yet and steers you, stumbling, over to the chair where you'd started all this. He half-falls, half-sits, and pats his thigh, reaching out to you with his other hand.

Oh. _ This _ is new. 

There are a lot of unwritten rules with him, so many that it can be frustrating at times, and one of them has always been that Michael’s on top. Michael's in control. Michael pushes and pulls and puts you how he wants you while he takes what he wants from you. 

But _ this_. Michael looking up at you completely lost in the need for pleasure, in the need for you..._this_, you could get used to.

He starts stroking himself as you clamber up onto his lap - "Come on, baby, hurry, not gonna last much longer" - grabs at your ass, your back, moans into your mouth when you grab hold of his face and bend down to kiss him, right at the exact moment that he's guiding his tip to brush against the part of you that's very, very ready for him.

Michael sinks in, frictionless, and seems mesmerized by the way you pick up his lead and make it your own, bracing yourself against the projection table so you can ride him.

“Fuck me, oh, fuck _ me-_”

You do. His hands snake up inside your dress, feel the muscles in your middle flexing as you roll your hips along his length. He switches his stare between your face, the way your tits bounce with every impact, and the incredible view of his cock disappearing inside you. Not once does he try to take over.

Michael growls, low and guttural, and his grasp on your hips is fierce. Needy. "Keep goin', keep goin', god, don't you fuckin' stop."

You don't, even though your thighs burn and even though you want to see him like this forever. He crushes you to him, shuddering and burying his face in your chest as his voice breaks and he lets you make him come inside you. Michael is a deeply flawed man on every possible level, but right now, he's perfect.

There’s a moment or two of catching your breath, and the smell in the room shifts to make way for the heavy and unmistakable scent of really good sex. You’d love to just go on holding Michael like this, but you just put your lower half through hell and there are much better places to cuddle than a claustrophobic utility closet. 

The guys Michael paid off are standing conspicuously close to the door when Michael throws it open. The two of you rush past the gawking teenagers, with you still adjusting your top and giggling, and you could swear that Michael looks 20 years younger than when you went in.

You hear one of the kids ask the other, "Dude, how do I become an executive producer?"

What the rest of the night, the week, the year, holds is as much of a mystery as the man by your side, tugging you out into it, but you think you can suffer through not quite knowing how it ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Worth the wait??
> 
> More thanks than I can even being to express are due to everyone who read, commented, messaged, shared, etc. I can't explain to you how much that has motivated me and kept me sane through insane work schedules, general life chaos and so on. (All my love to coldbluestar, dandyqueen, uygirlfriend, shethenightwolf, and real-fanta-sea 💖 MY LOVE FOR EACH OF YOU KNOWS NO BOUNDS AND YOU CANNOT ESCAPE IT) And special thanks to BadDecisionsAndGoodWriting, who suggested this format for the ending(s)! *chef's kiss* Genius. 
> 
> Fuckin',,,,,Yeah dude!! I'm pumped!!! Look out for more (in less than 6 months akjsdskjkdk) 👀


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